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Quick: What's the first stereotype that comes to mind when you think of Bangladesh? And no cheating by flipping to The Onion Atlas of the Planet Earth.

If you don't know any stereotypes about the country, or maybe if you're not exactly sure where it is on the map, you're like I was a few short months ago. Innocent.

Today, there was a shouting match in my English 12 class.

Two groups of students disagreed with how the play "Master Harold" ... and the boys might continue, if it were to continue. One group suggested anger leading to murder. The other group opted for reconciliation. Guess which group was boys and which was girls.

At the end of class, after the arguing was over, there was one thing I was angry about.

"I love it that you guys were so heated about this," I said. "I mean, it made me think you actually have something to say about a work of literature. But one thing I cannot tolerate is that racist remark I heard."

In the middle of the argument, out of left field, some kid had said to another, "Of course you think there will be violence. You're Bangladeshi."

The kids here, because they are kids and they live in dorms, have all sorts of inside jokes, put-downs, and ridicule that they heap on each other. Absolutely nothing is sacred. But eventually it has to come to a stop. Someone has to teach a little political correctness.

I held the kid who made the comment after class, told him that he'd have to come up with a punishment for himself, something that the rest of the class would take seriously and take as a warning not to make the same kind of comments in the future.

"Think about this," I said. "You're high and mighty here. You come from a family with money, with status. Next year, when you go off to college in a foreign country and you're in the minority, no one will care about those things, and you'll hear all sorts of comments coming your way. How's that going to feel?"

If he goes to the U.S., for example, many people won't even know if he's Indian or Pakistani or Bangladeshi. If he's Hindu or Muslim. Some might look at him and think, terrorist. How will it feel?

Some stereotypes are rooted in truth, but most result from fear or hatred or stupidity. As far as I'm concerned, though, I'd rather not know certain ideas about countries and people. I miss being innocent.

Talk

Listen: I want to tell you about a day in my life ...

Friday, 7:15 a.m.

There's a knock on my door. One of my neighbors with a thermos and something wrapped in paper. And a note:

Dear Mr. P,
We are really sorry! We will try to be better. Hope you get well soon. Hope you enjoy the soup and the garlic bread. Get some rest. Take care.
--Grade 12

"Who's this from?" I ask. My neighbor has been sworn to secrecy but tells me anyway. "Thanks," I say. Almost instantly I have two favorite students.

I unscrew the thermos, and as cold soup spills onto my hand, I flashback to yesterday:

I had one of those days that I'd rather forget, one of those days that the students won't soon forget. A little sick, a little cranky, and with scratchy 90-year-old lifetime smoker voice, I yelled at my twelfth graders for not caring about a word I had said all year long. "As a teacher, I have to reflect on everything I do," I croaked, "and I guess I've come to the conclusion that I'm not very effective."

I pulled out a stack of essays I had collected the other day, shook the stack at the class. I rambled on about some golden rules of writing about literature that I had tried to make clear, things I called "instant zero requirements." They were called "instant zero" because that was the grade I had threatened if the requirements weren't met. Stupid things like underlining titles of novels.

"Let's see," I said, examining the top paper. "This might be an excellent essay, might have some great points ... but is the title underlined? No! So I'll never read it!" With that, I crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the trash can. It went in.

"How about this one? Same thing!" I crumpled up that one too and tossed it. "Look, I made it," I said with a bright smile. "So that's two more points for me. But zero for you!"

And on it went. In a class of 21, only six survived. In my other class, eight survived. Whenever I missed the trash can, I said, "That's zero for both of us! But me, I don't care!"

Later, one of the kids came up to me. "That was the greatest English class of the year," he said. Sounded sincere. When I reminded him that his paper had ended up in the trash, he said, "Yeah, but I learned so much. Really."

When I told the story at lunch, the new guy at the table said, "I thought that kind of thing only happened in movies."

"Stick around," I said.

7:25 a.m.

I rush to school. I've promised to write a recommendation for another student. It's due today, and I've just started it. She shows up and admits she hasn't even started the essay she has to write, and she asks me for advice. I give her some, although really, I could use some myself.


8:10 a.m.

An eleventh grader walks into the office, asking if I can read the introduction to her essay, which is a narrative, for the third time. "Can you give me a minute?" I plead. "I've got to fill in this recommendation form first." She gives me a minute, then I give her essay a minute. The narrative still doesn't work, I tell her, and give her some more ideas. "More details. More conversation. More people talking. If you don't remember exactly what was said, make it up. No, don't make it up, but do your best. Write it the way you remember." Why can't students write realistic dialogue?


8:35 a.m.

Five minutes into class, there seem to be no hard feelings from my paper-crumbling episode yesterday. "I just hope you all know that I did that," I say, "because I care." I see some eyes roll upwards, but no one feels like challenging my display of caring. Halfway into class, nobody rebels when I ask the class to write the essay again. I walk around the room and notice that everybody has underlined the title.


10:00 a.m.

I tell my eleventh graders to open their textbooks to some random page I've selected. "See all the dialogue?" I ask. "What happens when a new person talks?"

"New paragraph," someone says.

"Exactly."

I tell them that writing dialogue isn't necessarily a required skill, but it would be nice to be able to do it. I then talk about a class discussion we've been having on moodle. "Here's a request I have for you," I tell them. "Instead of writing, 'I disagree with Tom,' you should write, 'I disagree with Tom's idea.' Do you see how that's different?"

They promise to, from now on, attack each other's ideas, not each other.

They then read a short story called "Nobody Listens When I Talk" and respond to it in their journals.

"I hate sad stories," one guy says as he finishes it.

"Write down why," I tell him.

After everyone has written something, I ask if anyone would like to share.

"I think the girl is absolutely pathetic," a girl declares, and then goes into a rant about why the narrator is the most pathetic human being, ever.

"Wow," I said, "imagine if someone said he or she really identified with the character."


11:35 a.m.

My second section of twelfth graders is rewriting the essay. A girl calls me over. "I need TP," she says. "To blow my nose."

Everyone is quiet. Working. I walk out of the room, jog upstairs to the boys bathroom. Of course, no toilet paper. "I can't believe this," I mumble as I walk towards the girls bathroom. "Hello?!" I yell. "Anyone in there? I'm coming in."

I run back into my classroom with a roll of toilet paper. The girl who asked for it already has some on her desk. Someone had some. I should've asked.


12:15 p.m.

I stop by the library. Recommendation girl is in there and asks me to read over her application letter so far. The first two paragraphs--about how writing is her passion--are good. I tell her. "But what do I write after this?" she asks.

I have no idea. "I don't know," I say. "What's your major going to be? Tie it in with that. How the business world needs passionate writers or something."



2:35 p.m.

My least favorite part of my weekly schedule: exploration block. It's a hole on our schedules filled with random students to explore some non-academic topic. No one signed up for my poetry idea, so instead I run something called Rock 'n' Roll Appreciation. I thought I'd get a bunch of cool kids talking about and exchanging cool music. Underground Bhutanese techno maybe. Or Indian indie rock. But no, I've got a bunch of kids who don't even bring in their iPods and just sit around sulking when I try to introduce them to bands like The Velvet Underground and The Clash.

"How about some Girl Talk?" I ask.

"Oh, I downloaded that album," one of the kids says.

"Really? You did?" I ask. "How did you hear about it?"

"You played that one song last week," he says.

And I'm finally like, wow, one of these guys actually got turned on to something cool. The new Girl Talk, by the way, is definitely cool. And at pay-what-you-want, the price is right.


3:35 p.m.

Right after school, application girl rushes up with her finished copy. It's good. I mean, she basically followed my suggestions, but somehow made it sound really good. "Thank you so much," she says, racing to the counselor's office, where she'll fax her essay and mine. I hope mine is good enough.


3:50 p.m.

Seven of my advisory kids are hanging out in the English office. I've bought them some amazing cheesecake from a new cafe in town, my apology to them for canceling our dinner tonight. Once or twice a quarter, I invite them over to my place, but I haven't been feeling well, so I canceled.

One of the girls, who is in my English class, is telling another one about what happened in class yesterday.

"Why did he throw away your papers?" her friend asks.

"Because he cares about us," she deadpans. She's Japanese, and her English isn't perfect, but I think she's got sarcasm down.


4:15 p.m.

As my advisees leave, an eleventh grader walks in to see if I'll read over her essay. It's quite good, even though the narrative isn't the best. I blab on about details, about showing not telling, all those things English teachers blab on about. Still, I'm captivated by her story.

"Even back home in Nepal, people call me 'Chinky,'" she says. In India--and Nepal I learn--people with East Asian features are called "Chinky," something the bullies maybe wouldn't get away with in the U.S.

I get lost in parts of her essay because it looks like she's been abusing a thesaurus. I accuse her of that.

"It's just that I'm not very confident with my English vocabulary," she says in perfectly pronounced, perfectly articulated English.

"From now on, I want you to only use words you know," I say. "I mean, half these big words you use have, you know, different connotations. Yes, they mean something like the word you're thinking of, but they're different."

She tells me about an SAT course she took over winter break in Nepal. She was considered the best writer in class, but still, she didn't know most of the words on the test.

"All right, let's work on your vocabulary," I say, "but when you're writing, only use the words you know well."

She leaves. I pack up. As I walk out the door, I see another eleventh grader, the one from this morning.

"Fine," I say as she walks up with her essay. "But only 10 minutes."

Twenty minutes later, I realize I've created a monster. Her narrative is much improved. But now it's way too long. Who wants to read this much? With almost too much dialogue. Still, her story is almost heartbreaking for some reason, and with every sentence I learn something new about traditional Indian values.

I start to warn her about the dangers of the thesaurus.

"I know," she says, and informs me that her friend filled her in after leaving the office. How did they do that in two minutes, I wonder. They must have met in the hallway, and one told the other, "He said not to use the thesaurus."

The two of them, it turns out, are now roommates. They chose each other because both are hard-working. They read each other's drafts, talk about teacher comments, and learn new words together. And instantly they become my favorite students this year. And this time it's for real.


5:45 p.m.

As I walk home, tired but oddly rejuvenated, I realize something, and if I were writing an essay for my class, this would be my thesis statement: Kids listen. They may look like they're not. They may pretend like they're not. They may be bored or sarcastic or mean. They may drive you crazy with their apathy or their questions. But they listen.

Lies

In order to be an OK teacher, one must be a spectacular liar. I'm not sure if I'm an OK teacher yet, but I'm definitely getting better in the lying department.

After school the other day, one of my twelfth graders stopped by the office. "Can I ask you for a big favor?" she asked.

"You can ask," I said.

"Could you write me a letter of recommendation?" she asked. She then revealed that she needed it right away, that the application deadline to this university was just a few short days away, and that she'd have to scan in my letter and email it. The letter, actually, was to be less of a recommendation and more of a statement that the student could read and write English.

"I suppose I can write it," I said, "but first let's see how good your English really is. Why don't you first tell Mr. P what I picked up off your neighbor's desk yesterday." There are three Mr. P's in the English department here, myself included, but I was talking about our head of department.

"Well, you picked up our math homework," she said.

"Really? And what was happening with your homework?" Mr. P asked. I had filled him in on the story earlier.

"She was checking her answers," the girl said.

"Just checking?" I asked.

"Well, she didn't know some of the answers."

"So," Mr. P said. "In other words, you were cheating. A day after the principal said that cheating of any kind, even copying homework, wouldn't be tolerated. What kind of offense did he say it was?" 

"But she didn't get a chance to cheat because the papers were taken away," she said.

"Ah-ha," Mr. P said. "I guess we can't throw you in jail for intending to kill someone. So you should thank him for preventing you from cheating," he said, pointing at me.

"Thank you," she said.

"But still, what did the principal say would be the consequences for any type of cheating?" I asked.

She stared at us, stunned. "He said it would be a level 3 offense. Suspension," she said.

"That's right," Mr. P said. "So why don't you go home and pack your bags. Call your parents, and tell them you'll be spending some time with them in Bhutan."

"Yeah," I said. "I'll send the letter of recommendation there."

Mr. P continued: "And make sure you write a letter to all the universities you're applying to, and tell them about this incident, but assure them that you're a better person because of it, that it will in no way hurt your academic potential."

Most students, especially by the time they're in the twelfth grade, know that the three Mr. P's are quite sarcastic, so she didn't quite know what to believe.

"Are you really going to report me?" she asked me.

"I just did," I said. "I told my head of department." 

She looked at him. "Oh, you're fine," he said.

"This will never happen again," she said.

"I believe you," I said. See what I mean about being a liar?

She left, and I went home to write the letter. In it, I assured the university that this student had excellent English skills. Good enough to get out of suspension, I should have said.

Dogs

Here's another piece that I started writing in Goa. It's incomplete, but I need to post something:

I saw a puppy playing on the beach this afternoon. He was adorable, especially when he discovered a tiny red ball, about the size of a grape. His look of curiosity, then, when he picked it up carefully with his tiny teeth, his look of jealous possession, reminded me of a little child. His master ran after him, finally caught up and took away the ball, and scolded the mischievous boy, who put his head down onto the sand with eyes pleading for forgiveness.

Tonight, as I sit at my beach shack, sharing a beer and stories with other travelers, my attention turns to another dog, an older one sleeping a few feet away. He's got it all, the lazy bugger, with no worries: a place to sleep, plenty of food judging by his size, and lots of friends at nearby shacks. Then, he does something that makes me wonder just how far apart animals and humans really are.

Every night at around 9, when the sky is finally dark, fireworks signal a party somewhere down the beach. Tonight, I see the dog at my feet waking up to watch the exploding display, just like his human companions. He doesn't look scared or confused. He seems to enjoy the show. He sits up erect, eyes wide open, and as a rocket trails up into the air, he leans forward, expecting the explosion. When the rocket does explode, he sits back, his eyes saying "ooh" along with his human companions.

Any pet owner will tell you that animals have emotions. Maybe not as many as we have, maybe not as complex as ours are, maybe without the ability to express them as clearly as we do, but they are real. Can a cat or dog truly love somebody or apologize for a transgression? I think yes.

Anyone who has observed humans can tell you that we act on our basic, animal instincts more often than not. Just the other day, I paused to watch children playing in front of a school. Two boys got into some sort of argument (I couldn't hear or understand what it might have been about), and each grabbed the other by the throat. And they just stood there at arm's length, holding on tight, staring the other down without a word. And I thought, how similar are their eyes and expressions to two animals squaring off?

Surely humans are different from animals. But what happens when humans are treated like animals? 

On our campus, there is a lot of construction taking place. Every day I walk past the future gym, which is rising fast. The construction site, like everything else here, is on the side of a hill, so there are no easy roads to bring in materials. Which is why, from the road to the site, there is a path on which donkeys haul stone and sand all day long. You wouldn't want to walk up that steep path, covered in animal waste and beaten down by hooves. Thing is, there are plenty of men walking up that path, men with loads of brick strapped to their backs. Walking at the same pace and doing the job as the donkeys. All day long they go up and down, to the point of exhaustion, back and forth. The only difference between man and beast is that no one yells and wields a stick when the men slow down.

People wonder how the pyramids and other wonders of the world were built before the advent of heavy machinery. The answer is simple. Take a massive number of poor people, enslave them (or pay them a pittance, what's the difference), and make them work.

On another construction site, I've seen men squatting on the road, hammer in hand, breaking up large stones into smaller ones. All day long. And on another, men and women mixing sand into cement and carrying it up a path on their heads. 

Maybe when they go home at night (which is often a plastic-roofed shack on the construction site), these people laugh and talk about the future and have the same look of wonder that I saw on the dogs' faces at the beach. But at work, during the day in the sun, there is very little to separate them from beasts of burden. 

Wager

I wrote this last month while sitting on a Goa beach, drinking a beer. Pretty simplistic, but might as well share, to show that I wasn't just staring at the topless, aging hippies:

French philosopher Blaise Pascal argued like this that one should believe in God: "It makes more sense to believe in God than to not believe. If you believe, and God exists, you will be rewarded in the afterlife. If you do not believe, and He exists, you will be punished for your disbelief. If He does not exist, you have lost nothing either way."

Growing up, I always thought of myself as a rational person, or maybe something of a cynic or skeptic, so his argument--or "Pascal's Wager" as it's known--seemed inadequate. I didn't want to bet on God's existence. I wanted proof.

Every once in a while, I'd try to test God, to see if he'd intervene in everyday life and prove Himself. I wasn't the first or last fourth grader walking home on a snowy day sending up a silent prayer that went something like this: "Dear God, Please make it keep snowing all night. Please make it snow so much that school will be canceled tomorrow." Back in Chicago, every once in a while, we'd have a snow day, but only if there was so much snow that cars and buses couldn't move safely. It didn't happen often, especially after one mayor lost his reelection bid because he didn't clear the streets in a timely manner.

My little prayer was my own wager with God. I'd finish off with this offer: "If You make this happen, I promise that I will forever be a good, church-going person. I swear! And all you have to do is provide 10, 12 inches of snow tonight. Surely this is in your power."

I would sleep well that night, knowing that I didn't need to fear that awful math test the next day. The next day, I'd wake up calm and happy, yet a little excited. This happened more than once, and each time I remember running to the window and seeing clear blue skies and clear back streets. God had let me down.

Thing is, the prayer did work, just not in a way that I'd understand for a long time. My prayer somehow set my mind at east, allowing me to get a good night's sleep. Like any form of meditation, prayer slows your heart rate and allows you to calm down and think clearly about your problems, whether they are major life problems or minor math problems. Is this enough to believe in God? I don't know. But I know I'd always do OK on those math tests. Of course I would've done better if I had studied, but the praying at least kept me from getting too nervous.

Other things in life don't have such simple explanations. For example, I've never sought out palm readers or other fortune tellers, but sometimes they've found me. With mixed results.

Back in 1990, during my first year of college, a friend introduced me to his girlfriend, a strange but beautiful gypsy from somewhere in Eastern Europe. After saying hello, she held onto my hand and asked if I wanted her to read my palm. "Oh whatever," I thought, "like palm reading is real. But what if it is!" 

She lifted my palm to get a good look and almost immediately screamed and let go of my hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "I ... I've never seen such a short life line." In other words, she was telling me I didn't have much longer to live. 

I didn't necessarily believe her, but I thought, wow, in case she's right, I better start acting like I don't have much time left. I started ... living. No more wasting time, just sitting around watching TV. I sought out adventures, travels, excitement. "I'm not going to wait until I'm old to experience life," I decided.

That was almost 20 years ago. So I guess I outlived my lifeline. 

Years later, while living in Japan, I met another friend's strange but beautiful girlfriend. This one didn't read palms. Instead, she read feet. I thought she was giving me a foot massage, but really, she was applying pressure to different parts of my foot to learn about me. For the most part, after tickling for a while, this "massage" felt good. But then she pressed one point and I felt an almost electric pain shooting up into my body.

"Does that hurt?" she asked, pressing again. I pulled my foot away.

"According to your foot," she told me, "you are healthy, except for your stomach. That part of your foot corresponds with your stomach, so it means you will have stomach problems later in life."

And here's the thing: It's now later in my life. And while I don't have major stomach problems, my stomach does cause me problems more than other parts of my body. Then again, ever since that foot reading, I started taking care of myself. Started drinking more juice and water, less alcohol. Eating more fresh fruits and vegetables, less junk food. Maybe the warning helped me make better choices by leading a healthier life.

These days, I'm still cynical, and I'm not much of a betting man. But when I reflect on what I've learned from the palm reader and the foot reader, maybe it makes more sense believing. There's much to gain, and the proof--if one is necessary--is a longer and more fulfilling life.

Guide

As we were sitting around a campfire in the middle of the desert, watching the stars appearing one by one, one of our guides pointed over his shoulder and said, "Pakistan is that way."

"Really? How far is it?" someone asked.

"Less than five kilometers," he replied. 

The three of us on the safari looked at each other with a mixture of fascination and dread. Had we really ridden that far west from Jaisalmer these last two days? I hadn't bothered to even look closely at a map of Rajasthan before embarking on the safari, so I guessed it was possible.

"So, what are those lights?" I asked, pointing at a couple of sets, evenly spaced, in the direction of Pakistan.

"That's the border," he replied. "Should we take the camels there?"

After a slight pause, the other guide, the younger, more serious one said, "He's just joking. Pakistan is at least 90 kilometers away."

The first guide smiled. "They wouldn't allow us to come that close."

For the next hour, we chatted with these two men, mostly about their lives and their villages, but also about U.S. politics.

"George Bush just wanted India and Pakistan to go to war," the older one said, "because he wanted India to need America and then be under its control." He expressed hope that Obama would be different but adopted a measured "we'll see" attitude towards the new president.

For a complete outsider like me, the guides' lives in their small village fascinated me more than their take on world affairs. And they didn't mind talking, considering we were their customers. In 16 years of being a guide, the older man said, he had never had a group of Indian tourists. Only foreigners seemed interested.

Neither man had ever been more than 50 kilometers outside his place of birth. Neither had any interest in seeing what was out there. They lead simple lives, bound by tradition and caste, that they wouldn't change.

Much of their lifestyle baffles me, probably in the same way that my lifestyle baffles them. Though I might use words like "wrong" or "backwards" to describe some of their beliefs, at the same time I am drawn to their simplicity and respect for family and tradition. One such concept is marriage.

"He's getting married in six months," the older man, who was married with "only" five children, said about his younger partner. When his three customers congratulated him, the younger man said that the other one was joking again, that he wasn't getting married until sometime next year.

"Oh, but he has to listen to me because I'm older," the older one laughed. "So if I say six months, that is the way it is."

Officially, systems like caste and dowry are frowned upon; in small villages, they are alive and well.

In small villages of Rajasthan, when a son is ready for marriage, his parents make an arrangement with a neighbor or someone in a nearby village. But since they are taking their neighbor's daughter, the groom's family must provide a young girl to that family. If they don't have a daughter to exchange, they exchange a cousin or niece. The brides are "officially" 18, but the exchanged girls are often much younger.

The bride and groom meet each other for the first time on their wedding night. After that, the bride spends time alternating between her husband's home and her family home for several months until she is comfortable with her new arrangement.

Our guides said that there's no such thing as dowry; however, the bride's family spends a lifetime's savings on the wedding feast and on gifts for the bride's new home. What they cannot afford, they borrow from a moneylender and then spend another lifetime paying it back.

"Is there anyone who thinks this is a bad system?" I asked. "Does anyone protest? Does anyone think that, instead of spending 300,000 rupees on gold, they could buy a team of camels and start a business?"

My questions didn't make any sense to the men. 

Recently on TV, I've seen a lot of anti-domestic violence messages. There's a campaign called "ring the bell." In the commercials, the sounds of violence come from a home. A neighbor, or a group of neighbors, walk up to the door and ring the doorbell. In one, a group of boys ask the man of the house for their lost cricket ball. He closes the door, then comes back saying something about the ball not being in the house. One of the boys just stands there tossing the cricket ball. When the man sees this, he understands.

The older guide admitted that there were cases of domestic violence in the village. "But when it happens, a group of men go to the house and beat the man," he said, again with a smile.

As for divorce or other attempts to go against tradition, well, they weren't tolerated. "If a man divorces, he will be kicked out of his caste," he said. And did this ever happen? He couldn't remember the last time it did. Nobody wanted to become an untouchable.

I wondered how any of these things were possible in modern India. Weren't there federal laws to follow? The guide laughed. "What can the government do to me?" he asked.

I thought about stories about tribal Pakistan and Afghanistan, where villagers live by their own rules and refuse to be governed by politicians in the capital cities. I wondered if it was the same here in India. "What if the government declares war on another country?" I asked. "Would you refuse to do what your government wants you to do?"

"If our country told us to fight, we would fight," the older man said. "Without question." He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and added, "even if it was against America."

Posse

THIS is what I miss about Chicago:

Remember, D, the kid who had his laptop stolen? I wrote about him, saying that he was special and would amount to great things. So readers of this blog donated something like $1,000, plus a new laptop, to replace the computer, not because they knew me or D, but because they wanted to make a difference in the life of a kid with potential.

Well, I'm happy to say that Devin (I should start calling him by his name) is on his way to reaching that potential. He recently emailed me, saying that he has won the Posse Scholarship, which will pay his tuition for four years at Oberlin College, a private liberal arts school in Ohio, "the school I really wanted to go to."

You can read about Posse on its website, but here's the main point:

The Posse Foundation identifies public high school students with extraordinary academic and leadership potential who may be overlooked by traditional college selection processes. Posse’s partner colleges and universities award Posse Scholars four-year, full-tuition leadership scholarships. These Scholars graduate at a rate of 90 percent and make a visible difference on campus and throughout their professional careers.

Makes me proud to have been a part of Devin's life ...

iPod shuffling through life

OK, first of all, this is not a product endorsement. This is an invitation to a philosophy of life.

I recently bought an iPod shuffle. I got the shuffle instead of a proper iPod with display not because I knew it would change my life; I chose it because it was cheap. Plus, at 2 GB, it has enough room for a nice variety of songs I like, but not enough to load with my entire music library. This is an important distinction.

As I loaded songs, I knew I had to be picky, so I chose just a few from each artist. I had to think, which are my favorites? Which are the ones I am not sick of, the ones I'm least likely to get sick of if I hear multiple times in the next six weeks as I take 12- and 19-hour train rides? 

After loading 20 episodes of This American Life and 250 songs, I still had room for about 100 songs. Why not, I thought, let the shuffle choose some songs for me? It has an "autofill" button that will "choose items randomly" for you. In a couple of minutes, my iPod was loaded.

I clipped on the shuffle and went for a walk. I've always been opposed to headphones because, I thought, I like to be one with nature. I want to hear the birds and car horns and monkeys rustling in trees. As soon as I hit play, I realized I had been wrong all these years. Even though I couldn't hear those nature sounds, my other senses were heightened. I could see and smell and touch (if I wanted) the birds and cars and monkeys. Plus, my walk now had a soundtrack. 

The third song that came on startled me. It was great. Fun. With cool, funny lyrics. But I had no idea what it was. In fact, I was almost certain I had never heard it before. It must have come out of my library, must be one of the random selections, but I had no idea what it was. 

When I got home, I googled the lyrics, which went like this: "Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma? / I climbed to Dharamshala too, I did / I met the highest lama / His accent sounded fine to me, to me." This was amazing because, first of all, Dharamshala is near where I live in northern India, second, because it was about punctuation (even though I don't know what an Oxford comma is but I sure don't care about it), and mostly, because I was pretty sure this was not my song. It was ... iPod magic.

The song turned out to be "Oxford Comma" by Vampire Weekend. And it turns out I did have it in my iTunes. But how it got there remains a mystery. I probably downloaded it a while back and instantly forgot about it. And if it wasn't for my iPod shuffle, I would have never heard it.

In addition to providing me with a soundtrack of songs I didn't know I had, the shuffle made me embrace the concept of randomness.

As I lay on a overnight train bench the other day, trying to block out the snoring of the guy next to me, I cranked up the volume on my iPod. Because of its tiny size, the shuffle has no display, so you have no idea what track you're playing, or which one's coming next. (This is why I had to look up the Vampire Weekend song.) You can play the songs straight through your playlist or, what's more fun, you can select random play. Just like the "party shuffle" on iTunes, the random playlist is often incredible: songs that you would never play back-to-back play that way and sound great. As someone proud of his mix-tape-making abilities, I admit I am jealous of the iPod's skills.

The train bounced along. The snoring continued. And I was still awake. I thought I'd like to hear "Oxford Comma," and this is what can be infuriating about the shuffle. Without the display, and without knowing where in your playlist a song is, it can take hours to find it. That's what happened.

I clicked next, and a great song came on, and I thought, "Hmmm, let's listen to this one." I listened for two or three minutes, clicked next again, and again a great song came on. Since I had loaded mostly my favorite songs, every song was just about guaranteed to be great.

Music, of course, has the power to make you nostalgic. Especially when you're on a dark train in the middle of India. One song would remind me of a person. Another would remind me of a cross-country drive, or a commute, or a time I drove around the block an extra time to hear an entire song. As the minutes turned into an hour, I was taken on a journey to concerts and bedrooms and bars. I remembered moments and summers and heartbreaks. This is not homesickness or loneliness, mind you; this is just a collection of recollections.

Finally, I was sleepy, and I still hadn't found what I was looking for. I started clicking, nonstop, until I got to it.  It turned up easier than I thought I would. And then I was disappointed.

First of all, the song just wasn't as powerful as the others. The others were linked to some memory. They were ones I have loved for a long time. This was a new song to me. And compared to the memories the other elicited, this one didn't hold up.

I was also disappointed because, well, I had been searching for this one. And you know how, when you pursue something (or someone), you end up being disappointed when you finally get it? When the other songs came on, there was recognition, but there was also an element of surprise. "Wow ... I hadn't been expecting that song. And it sounds just perfect right now, right here."

So I decided that randomness is the way to go. On my iPod. But also in life. Let every day, every moment come as it may. Leave it up to God's will or fate or destiny or some little computer chip in your iPod. Sometimes you'll be disappointed because it wasn't the song you were in the mood for, or because it was rainy when you went to the beach. Sometimes a song will remind you of something hurtful, just like some days will be hurtful. 

But each song, each moment, each day will help you get where you're going, will combine to create the soundtrack that's your life. 

I'll try never clicking "next" on my iPod again. I can't wait to hear what the next song will be. But I'm going to sit back and enjoy this one.

Proctoring poetry

Random scribbles from another two-hour session, this time for an advanced mathematics exam:

Smart Fly

A little after one,

A little fly flew 

Through an open window

Into the room

Where forty-one seniors,

Bent over calculators,

Fingers twirling in hair,

Heads down, eyes here and there,

Worked on the semester one

Math exam.

Less than halfway into the room

The little fly made a U-turn

And flew outside again.

Snot 

The boy sniffling a lot,

Blowing into tissue a lot,

Looking and sounding like he's about to die

A lot,

Isn't wearing socks.

Mathematically Impossible

Even if you calculate the remainder 

     of a string of numbers,

     when divided by rational roots,

     some things remain irrational.

If you get to the root of the equation,

     examining interior angles,

     following parallel lines,

     certain things will never equate.

Even if you do know x and y,

     having checked all probabilities,

     it's probably still unknown

     why she's your ex

     and not your infinite one.

Shoes

I am in the middle of proctoring a two-hour macroeconomics exam. The thing looks like a bunch of random lines and charts and senseless questions, but the kids seem to know what's going on.

In the meantime, my eleventh graders are taking the English exam elsewhere. I will soon have a pile of papers to mark. And will I think, "Wow, guess I didn't teach these kids anything this year." The sad realizations of a teacher? Or will I be pleasantly surprised?

Proctoring is a special form of torture, reserved for the seventh circle of hell. You cannot talk. Read. Grade. Look out the window. Just pace the aisles for two hours, checking for cheating. 

Alone in my thoughts. OK, and I sneak out my camera and take a picture, without flash of course. This is what an exam looks like.

Here's a discovery, which isn't all that clever, but something to think about just the same: students at this school do not spend all that much money on shoes. Maybe this does mean something, something regarding economics ...

Back in Chicago, where most of my students were dirt poor, they wore expensive shoes: Timberland, Air Jordan, etc. Here, at this expensive, elite boarding school, where some of my students' parents are executives of multinational corporations, the kids wear ratty Converse All-Stars, cheap Pumas, Crocs. In fact, it seems that the more money in the family, the cheaper the footwear.

So, what does it mean? Is it just a fashion thing? Or are the parents well-off because they're frugal? Or are they teaching their children sound financial management lessons?

Or does it have more to do with the poorer kids back in the big cities? Are they targeted unfairly by marketers and their search for coolness? Do they spend what little they have on a few consumer goods that they can then show off?

These questions are not on the macroeconomics exam. Maybe these are issues for microeconomics. In any case, class, there are five minutes remaining on the test. 

Impress

Why is it so hard to round up the stage crew kids?

The backstage area seems as big as a warehouse today, and as I yell at some kids in one room to head to the stage, I realize other kids have filtered into the room I had just cleared. I'm going in circles, and I can't get everyone to assemble in one place.

Plus, I've got the core group on stage, playing around with the ropes, hanging each other by the legs and then swinging around. And a secondary group opening up pizza boxes, sneaking pieces of awful pepperoni. 

My voice is hoarse from yelling, yet no one can hear me.

It's 4 a.m., and I'm dreaming about the fall play. I fell asleep at 10:30, exhausted, and now I roll around in bed, covers over my head to keep warm, still exhausted.

Rehearsals, in fact, have been going great, with very little work from me. Yet I can't help but worry about the first show, which is Thursday. The stage crew has been the weak link. While the student director's personality is loud and demanding, the stage crew head is very laid back. The actors have been whipped into shape, but the running crew and makeup group are still disorganized. The crew hasn't assembled in its entirety once, and there's too much lag time between acts. The audience will be bored.

But ... for some reason, I have complete faith. As I lie in bed, I think about my experiences here the past four months. The students really seem to respond when given freedom to do their thing. In fact, when I try to control things, whether assignments in English class or play rehearsals, things fall apart. But when I let go, when I set high expectations and walk away, the great majority of students do a great job.

This is a very difficult thing for me. I tend to micromanage. Control every element of every assignment. Make sure kids listen to every word I say. Have them do things exactly right. But, really, they can achieve so much more when I take a step back and let things happen.

And, really, this has been true in all my years teaching. Whenever assignments call for creativity and independence, whenever I say "impress me," students impress me. The less I interfere, the more they accomplish. I start to think I've figured out some great, big secret here.

Is that why can't I sleep? 

I mean, is this why I can't sleep? (Or write properly?)

Oil

Best excuse note of the year nominee:

Mr. P.,

V. is late to English because he was still oiling his horn when the bell rang.

Sorry ... :(

M.H.

Jam

Proudly made using child labor:

Player hater

"Mr. P, you're such a drama queen!"

"Me? What do you mean?" 

"I mean, you're always gossiping. Always trying to create drama."

Of course I knew exactly what she was talking about, so I had to defend myself.

"Gossip is when you talk about someone behind her back. If I said something to you, it's not gossip. Maybe I was teasing you, but not gossiping about you."

"You ... are ... so mean! I'm not a bad person!"

"I never said you're a bad person. In fact, I don't think that. I think the German is a bad person."

You knew he'd eventually reappear, didn't you? 

Recently, this one eleventh grader, who I refer to affectionately as the German, has been making his rounds through the twelfth grade girls. He's pretty smooth, fairly charming, and decent looking. He pursues these girls, and as soon as he has them, he drops them and moves on to the next victim. "I have this problem," he once told me. "As soon as a girl likes me, I'm not interested anymore."

So ... last weekend was the Junior-Senior Ball, and the German went with one of the prettiest girls. This week, I've seen him chatting up this other girl, a girl I'll name Sam.

So ... earlier in the day, I saw Sam not talking to this other guy in her class. When I asked her about it, she said that the two of them were trying to see how long they could go without speaking to each other.

"Oh really? Interesting," I said, and as she walked away, I called after her, "What about the German? Is it OK for you to talk to him?" She ran off blushing. Then later at the flagpole area, she accused me of gossiping.

"If it wasn't true," I said, "then it wouldn't bother you."

"But why me?"  Sam asked. "Why don't you tease him about it?"

"Oh, I have. I've told him that, one day, all the girls at this school would get smart and not give him the time of day," I told her. "And do you know how he responded? He said, 'No, that will never happen!' So, like I said, I don't think you're a bad person."

"He said that? Well, someone is going to say no to him."

I hurried off before Sam could declare war on me or all of Germany, and I wondered if it was my place to protect the girls against the players at this place, and I decided that, yes, someone has to do it.

Strike 2

In the middle of second period today, everyone was called to the auditorium for a special assembly. Without giving too many details, the head of high school announced that, because of what's going on in the country, a national strike had been called, and students would be dismissed immediately following the assembly.

This is the second strike of the year, second half-day like this. And I'm still not too sure what's going on, except that it's something about religious/political tensions. Also, this might not be the best time to live and work in India. Then again, whenever there are problems and changes, wherever there's action, that might be the best time to live in a particular place.

Our first priority is the students, so I'll be heading up to dorms in a few minutes to relieve staff there for a while. It'll be another afternoon of just hanging out with the eleventh and twelfth grade boys. 

After the assembly this morning, one of my students said, "I was thinking about you. Thinking how you probably had been thinking that we'd have a whole week of school this week." He was right. It seems that, with so many things going on here at this school, there's rarely a full, uninterrupted week of classes. That's one thing that makes it great and interesting, but it also makes it tough to teach sometimes.

Another student said, "I heard about the strike this morning. And during your class, I was praying the whole time that we'd get the day off."

"Maybe your prayers came true," I said. "But I just thank God that at least I had my twelfth grade English class today." 

She just scowled. "You must have been such a nerd in high school," she said.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I was an awful student. I hated school. I was fairly smart, but I was lazy. And now, this is my punishment, being a teacher to students just like me."

Not sure she believed me. Or even listened. But as she walked off, I yelled after her, "Since you have the rest of the day off, work on your poetry!"

I know I wouldn't.

Autumn Movement

By Carl Sandburg

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.

Pride

What happens when a student that you've been trying to get to speak up finally does?  You punish him, that's what.

An easy distinction to make between western and eastern students is that the Asians--especially those from Japan and Korea--are quiet, meek, subservient, uber-respectful. That getting some of them to speak is like pulling a rotten, broken tooth.

Of course every stereotype can be shattered, every stubborn tooth can be yanked, but is it possible to push the right buttons, to prod and push even the most timid student to the point of impudence?

Consider Hiroshi (completely made-up name): A student here for the past six years, he has never spoken up, has never uttered a clear, complete sentence in class. Asked to respond to a simple question, he'll stammer and stutter, hem and haw for so long that everyone in the room will throw their hands up in frustration. That's what the other teachers say. I know otherwise.

First of all, I've heard him with friends. A few weeks ago, I had a "Japanese party" at my place for the J-kids, and Hiroshi was here, chatting and arguing with his friends, confidently beating them down at darts and with words. And the thing is, his English pronunciation is excellent--clear and no typical Japanese errors with L's and R's.

Second of all, I've heard him practically yell at an adult. Again, great pronunciation. Fluent. And that tone! An inner city youth might blush at the level of disrespect. It happened yesterday.

I took one of my classes to one of the computer labs. We had to walk through the library and, because this lab doesn't quite have enough computers, students tend to race to make sure they get one. I was last one through the library, so I didn't see what happened, just the aftermath.

The librarian was yelling at three of my guys, specifically at Hiroshi. A small wooden cabinet stood between them, its glass door shattered. Two of the guys stood there, saying nothing. Hiroshi, however, came close to the librarian, practically shouted, "I told you I didn't touch it!"

"What? You want me to believe that you walked past," she retorted, sweeping her arm past, "and then, magically, the cabinet fell over on its own?"

"I was there," he said back, pointing to the stairs leading down to the lab. "How did I knock it down? I walked past and five seconds it crashed?"

The librarian was clearly fed up. "Fine, you were there," she said. "But no one else walked past this, and it fell down. I'm not blaming you. I'm not going to ask you to pay for this. I just want you to apologize!"

He walked closer, spread his arms in exasperation, and hissed, "What ... the ... heck!" 

Watching all this, I sure was glad he hadn't used another word, but I was even more glad that he turned around and stormed down the stairs. The librarian explained to me what had happened, the way she saw it, told me how frustrated she was with herself because, just an hour earlier, she had commented that this cabinet needed to be moved, that someone would knock it over if it stayed where the movers had placed it.

I walked down to my class. One of the assistant librarians walked over to Hiroshi and demanded that he go back and apologize to the librarian. He was ready to refuse. I said, "Hiroshi, go apologize. Now." As he slowly made his way back to the stairs, I caught up to him and said, "Listen. Maybe you don't need to apologize for the broken cabinet. Maybe you didn't do it. I didn't see anything, so I don't know. But you do need to apologize for the way you talked to her. I did see that."

He returned two minutes later. It was my turn up the stairs. "Did he talk to you?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Thanks for that. I told him that it would be expected that, even if he didn't knock it over, that he would come back and help pick it up and apologize."

"So," I said, "did he apologize?"

"Yes," she said. "He said that he was told to come back and apologize."

"He what?" He what!

It was my turn to feel dissed. I went back to the lab, waited for the final bell, then grabbed Hiroshi. As soon as the others were out of the room, I launched into him, into a solid 10-minute talk about respect and sincere apologies. The whole time, his defense was, "She had no right to yell at me." 

"That's a logical fallacy," I snapped. "We just talked about that one in class two days ago. Remember? You're just changing the subject. I tell you what you've done wrong and you deflect your wrongdoing by pointing out that someone else did something worse." He looked at me blankly. "Tell you what, if you tell me what fallacy you've just committed, I won't give you a demerit." He couldn't.

"Fine," I said. "You're not sorry about any of this. Then I'm not sorry for giving you a demerit. Three demerits! And I'm not sorry that I'm giving you Saturday morning detention." He just nodded, accepting his punishment.

Then I launched into another 10-minute spiel, this time about how I taught all types of miscreants in Chicago, and no one ever showed me this kind of disrespect. Finally, he had enough.

"But I went," he said. "You wanted me to go, and I did it."

"I wanted you to apologize," I said, "not tell her you were told to apologize."

"Did you want me to lie?"

"I wanted you to apologize," I said, careful not to raise my voice.

"But I went. If I didn't want to apologize, I wouldn't go."

"Are you kidding?" I asked. "If I told you to do something, you'd refuse if you didn't want to?"

"I've done it before," he said. And I noticed the frustration mounting in this usually silent student. Tears welled up in his eyes. As I launched into another spiel, this time about listening to the demands of your elders and superiors, a single tear rolled down his face. In utter humiliation, he wiped it back with his sleeve. 

At the time, I was quite proud of forcing him to cry. I wasn't sure what words finally got to him; perhaps it was: "Do you think it's OK to talk to the librarian that way because she doesn't give you a grade? Or is it because she's a woman?" Maybe it was something else, but I was glad. That'll teach him to speak up, I said to myself.

Later, though, thinking about it, I realized it was all some sort of misguided sense of pride. He probably felt he lost face there in the library, with this woman screaming at him about something he didn't do ... in front of everyone. He fought back, stuck up for himself, as he'd been taught to do here in this international school. And for that, he was being punished. 

Still, I wrote it up and he'll serve SMD this weekend. Maybe we can continue this discussion at some point, and I can tell him how saving face is more important than losing it. How a simple apology could do more for his reputation than whatever preceded it.

Who you gonna call?

When the phone rings in the English Department office in the middle of the afternoon, I know it can only mean one thing: whatever it is, it'll be unexpected.

It's my free hour after lunch. I have a quiz to write up so that I can get it to the Reprographics guy to get it copied for tomorrow. If I work quickly, I'll get it done before the next class starts. So when the phone rings, I'm tempted to ignore it. But maybe it'll be something interesting ...

"Sorry to disturb you, but can you do us a big favor?" It's the head of high school, so how can I refuse? "Can you run down to the health center and get a stretcher? A student took a spill in science class."

Every teacher knows that our job description entails much more than “teach course material.” We’re counselors, parents, friends, disciplinarians, confidantes, and sometimes cooks, janitors, and money lenders to our collection of crazy, mixed-up kids. At a boarding school, all those jobs are multiplied, and new ones emerge. Today I'm about to take on the role of "paramedic."

I run down the high school ramp to the health center. The nurses are waiting for me, and they are laughing when I arrive. "So sorry to make you do this," the head nurse says, "but it's just the two of us here, and we've already got a full house." 

I see one of my students, nose bandaged up. "Hey, you look better than ever," I say. He broke his nose a few days ago playing rugby, and he's just returned from the hospital.

I grab the stretcher and run back up the ramp to the senior lounge. A girl is sprawled on the floor, and a couple of friends and teachers are gathered around her. "This is so embarrassing," she complains when she sees me. We scoop her into the stretcher, and the office assistant and I carry her down the ramp. "I'm so sorry that I'm so fat and heavy," the girl says. She's one of the most petite girls at the school. I laugh and ask what happened. She doesn't know, doesn't remember. 

Walking down the ramp with us is a senior boy, holding the girl's hand and telling her she'll be OK. He's not her boyfriend. Nor is he just trying to get out of class. He's one of these incredibly nice guys that always seems to be helping others out. On another occasion, he has walked another girl from my class down to the health center after she had some weird epileptic seizure.

I try to say something funny, try to lighten the mood, but mostly I'm thinking about the quiz I'm trying to create for tomorrow. As soon as the girl is safely in the health center, I run back up to the office. If the phone rings again, I think, I should ignore it. But I know that I won't be able to resist.

Stupid drama

One of the cool things about the school where I work is that, despite being in the foothills of the Himalayas, there's a great Western vibe here. Students are loud and have learned the art of speaking out and even talking back. Despite that, they're plenty respectful, and some even say "thank you" after every lesson.

And when you catch them saying or doing something rude, even if they're right, they truly feel bad about it.

Today, walking up to my classroom after morning tea, I was behind one of my students on the staircase. She's new to the school, just here from Kathmandu; hard-working and sincere, she's one of those kids that stresses out about individual points on quizzes and never fails to remind me when something is fair or unfair. Basically, she's a student that works her ass off to get good grades.

Anyway, I was walking behind her and she didn't know I was there, and I overheard her say something to her friend about a "stupid drama" assignment. As soon as she said it, she glanced back, saw me, and almost literally melted in shame. "Hi there," I said, smiled, and quickly walked past. 

For the rest of the afternoon, every time I saw her, I'd glance over and smile, and she'd bow her head. I went up to her in the cafeteria during lunch. "Just getting ready for ... drama class," I said. As I walked away, I saw her whispering to her friend, who just laughed.

I wasn't really offended that she called some drama assignment stupid. In fact, I couldn't agree more. This is my first time teaching drama, and I've found myself making stuff up, creating lessons that require little work from me but still allow students to get on stage and act as much as possible. I've heard rumblings that the kids really like the class, that, for some, it's the highlight of the day. 

For me, it's the opposite. When I'm unsure of myself in front of a class, I tend to get serious, I tend to have less fun, and I make up assignments that challenge students to do things I myself could never do. But that's the way it goes with teaching. Maybe life. Insecurity breeds cruelty. Backed into a corner, one lashes out.

And during class today, I finally snapped. The students seemed to rebel over some minor detail, and I ended up yelling something at them and storming out of the room. I wasn't sure if I was really angry or if I just wanted to get out of there. But I left, ending up in the staff work room.

Five minutes later, a couple of guys from the class came to find me. "We're so sorry," they said. "Please come back."

"No way," I said. "Not until I think you can be honest."

"Come on, please," one of the guys said. "We can't be honest when critiquing each other. If I told someone how bad she was on stage, she would just tell everyone at school that I'm gay or something. And then I'd have no friends."

I had to laugh. "No, too bad, I'm done with you guys," I said, trying to think of a way I could gracefully return to class. Luckily, they thought of a way.

"What if we dance for you?" the other guy said. "Would you come back?"

"Tell you what. I'll give you five minutes. When I walk into that room, I want to see a Bollywood dance performed by the whole class."

They ran off. Five minutes later, the class danced. And it was really good. And we all laughed and forgot about the stupid drama assignment.

Soak

Every once in a while, someone asks, "What do you miss most about home?" There are a lot of things I miss--family, baseball, good beer, hot dogs, the lakefront, beer gardens, live music--but, quite honestly, I knew I'd miss these things even before I left. So my answer is usually a vague, "I don't know."

Last weekend, I came a little closer to an answer. 

When some friends invited me to join them for a trip to Rishikesh, I wanted to go, but I also wanted to chill out and do nothing. The thing that convinced me was this: the hotel would have a swimming pool. I live in a place without bodies of water, without bathtubs, without a chance to sit back and soak. And after two days of wandering the hillside, of taking five-hour walks up and down some steep inclines, I realized I needed, not just wanted, a day in a pool. So I said yes.

And in Rishikesh, I discovered the Indian version of truth. When we arrived at the hotel, we wandered over to the pool and found it filled with green water. Almost solid, thick, algae-overgrown water. We spoke to the manager, demanding a discount because the pool was unswimmable. He just looked at us, wondering what the problem was: when asked about the pool on the phone, he had replied that, yes, there is a pool. And I guess he wasn't lying.

I wasn't the only one looking forward to swimming, so we called other hotels, asking if they had pools, and more importantly, were they clean? We drove over to another place, this one with a great view overlooking the Ganges. Down below, we could see white water rafters going past.

The conversation at reception went something like this:

"Do you have four rooms?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you have a pool?"

"Yes."

"And is it clean?"

"Yes, sir. You will find it to your satisfaction."

Not ready to commit, we went over to look at this clean pool. And there it was: completely dry. Empty. No water. But certainly clean. We left and ended up staying at a place without a pool. We didn't feel like being mocked by a pool we couldn't use.

And I realized: one thing I really miss is the chance to just submerge myself in cool, clean water. That, and I miss direct responses to simple questions.