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.

Small world

After school yesterday, the phone in the English office was ringing off the hook as I walked in. I ran to pick it up before my head of department, a  cynical old Australian, could say anything about the call being from one of my fans. He does that. The phone rings, and he turns to anyone else in the room and says, "Must be one of his many fans." Guess he doesn't get many calls.

The call was from the development office. Something about a couple of my "fans" being at the school wanting to meet me. "Yeah, right," I said, thinking she was kidding around.

"No, really," she said. "There's a couple here in the Lyons Lounge from Chicago on their honeymoon, just passing through town, and they know of you from your blog." 

That sounded a little too random to be made up, so I dashed through a terrific downpour to the staff break room. And sure enough, there was a couple there from Chicago--Jeremy, an IT guy, and Erin, a former CPS teacher and current Museum of Science and Industry employee--who knew of me because of Chicago Teacher Man. 

Well ... it was like this: Jeremy had previously worked at a different international school in India. He moved to Chicago, where he met Erin, who had read a Chicago teacher's blog, an anonymous teacher who recently moved to India. On their trip here, they wanted to head north to the mountains, so they passed through town, then while wandering, got lost and ended up at the school gates. So they stopped by, and when they told school personnel that she was a science teacher and he an IT guy, they got the royal treatment and tour (we currently have a science opening). They asked school staff if there happened to be an English teacher from Chicago ...

We met, and later I dragged them over to my place, then on a walk up the hill, showing them the sites. They stopped for pictures ... of monkeys, of clouds, mountains, a rainbow, weird signs, and on and on, reminding me of me. (Maybe I'll get one or two of those pics to post on this blog?)

In any case, here they are at my place, my first official visitors from Chicago:

Unsuccessful

Back in Chicago, I found it funny when students couldn't spell a word like "guaranteed" on a quiz called Success Without a Guarantee.

Well, 7,000 miles away, on the same quiz, I've got proof of humanity's similarities. On one of my current student's quizzes:

garrunteed

garrantee

garrunteed

garunteed

garranteed

garunteed

She finally went with garranteed. 

One kid almost had a perfect score on the quiz; in fact, his only error was spelling "guaranteed." I garantee he'll be mad at himself when he gets the quiz back tomorrow.

Strike

Today was an unscheduled day off from school.

Christian institutions around the country, in a sign of solidarity, shut their doors in protest over religious attacks in the eastern part of India.

We started the day off with an all-school assembly, during which time some of the details of the conflict were explained. The principal asked a couple of students to place flowers at the base of our flagpole. The finance director reminded everyone they were privileged to be educated. The chaplain spoke to the students, focusing on the little ones. "You shouldn't be afraid. And here's why: Could I ask all the adults in the room to please stand up?" As soon as all one hundred-plus of us stood up, he continued, "Because see all these people? They're here to protect you and keep you safe and love you." In a way, his words touched me, made me think of my responsibilities here in this boarding school community.

The day wasn't completely free. Following the assembly, students returned to their dorms, and high school teachers met to hear about their duties for the day. Each of us was assigned a dorm to supervise for an hour.

I went up to where the senior boys live. It was sunny and almost hot, and the hike up was wonderful. The boys were welcoming, friendly, laid back. We sat around and chatted about things we don't get a chance to talk about in the classroom. I talked to some guys who auditioned for the fall play, to the student director of that play, to the dorm president who is frustrated by the living conditions, to a couple of guys that are helping me start an open-mic coffeehouse in the girls' dorm, to another about a planned Japanese party at my house. 

My hour turned into two, and I left knowing that the strike wasn't a blow-off day, wasn't an interruption in the students' education. In fact, it was a day to connect, for teachers to start acting like adults.

Two cents

As I passed out novels to my twelfth graders, a girl exclaimed, "I found money in my book!" She held up a note of some sort; it wasn't Indian.

"Hey, it's your lucky day," I said.

"Oh, I can't keep it," she said.

"Why not? Of course you can. We'll never figure out who it belongs to."

"No, I just can't. I'll give it to you."

I laughed, "No, then that would be seen as a bribe. I can't take it." I looked around the room. "Does anyone object to her keeping the money?"

No one objected, but someone suggested she donate it to charity. "Great idea," I said. "You can donate it to your favorite charity. How's that sound?"

She looked relieved. From a corner of the classroom, I heard someone say, "That thing's worth about two rupees." Two rupees is about five cents. All this trouble over five cents! But I guess the girl's got morals, or whatever you want to call it. Something I don't have.

The next morning, after I heard the crash of another small landslide behind my house and went outside to investigate, I found a 1,000-rupee note on the ground in front of my door. That converts to about $23; not a ton of money, but quite a lot here. In fact, I didn't even know the country had 1,000-rupee notes until then. (When I exchanged several hundred dollars at the airport, the highest denomination I got was 500.)

My neighbor, who was also outside to see if there was any damage to our water supply, said, "Thanks, that's mine."

"Yeah right," I said.

"I'm just kidding," he said. "But make sure you put that to good use. You know, buy your neighbors beer or something."

"I was thinking of buying some students pizza with this," I said, "but I like your idea better."

Week 1 report

This'll be quick (because I'm so busy, because I have so many papers to grade, because I have so many people to bug):

In one week at my new school I've established a totally new persona, one that I never in a million years could have pulled off in Chicago: Students consider me a difficult teacher, a harsh grader, a guy with unreasonable expectations. They actually fear me. 

On the other hand, many students are warming up to me. Today one of my advisor group students asked if I'd host a Japanese party at my apartment. "Absolutely," I said, and then bugged her and her friends about when they want to throw it, what they want to do, who they want to invite. 

This might seem like a contradiction, but I think it's the nature of the boarding school beast. Students view teachers one way in the classroom--as authorities, dictators, tormentors. Outside of class, they look at us as advisors, friends, confidantes. I guess this is true in any school, but especially on a campus where you can run into your charges at any time, on any day. So far I like it.

The German

It's weird, on the first day of classes at a tight-knit boarding school, I sort of felt like the new kid. The students were friendly and nice enough, but there was definitely a distance. Some tried to figure me out--am I cool? will I stick around?--but mostly they ignored me. So, I absolutely could understand how the new students feel. One of my favorites so far is an 11th grader from Germany. In less than 24 hours, I've busted him three times. Each time, he puts on the same innocent act--I'm new here; I have no idea how things work. And each time I'm like, yeah, same here.

Yesterday, I joined a small group of colleagues at a little restaurant at the top of the hill. When we got there, the place was absolutely overrun by high school boys; the main dorm is about to be demolished and replaced, so this year, the boys are scattered at different satellite dorms. The older kids are near this restaurant, so it'll be their hangout. After a while, the boys cleared out, and my group had the place to ourselves. As we sat there enjoying cheese toast and wai wai (which is glorified ramen), the German strolled up, carrying a bottle of Sprite in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

"Excuse me, are you a student?" one my my colleagues asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"You can't smoke! You smoke, and we have to report you right away."

"Yeah," I said, "you can't let us see you smoking!"

"Sorry," he said. He put out his cigarette and sat down at an adjacent table. After a few minutes, he got up to leave. He walked over and placed his pack of cigarettes and matches on our table. "That's it," he said. "I quit."

Today, as he entered my classroom, the German was listening to his iPod. "You know I have to confiscate that," I said.

"It's not allowed?" he asked. "Even between classes?"

"Even between classes. No iPods."

During class, students were working on my first assignment of the year--an application for my class. I always warn students that the application must be absolutely perfect--any cross outs or blanks and I don't accept it.

"Oh fuck," I heard. It was the German.

"What did you say?" I asked. "Oh what?"

"I said, 'Oh fuck,'" he said. Several students gasped. I shook my head. "You asked me what I said," he said.

"That's three strikes," I said, trying not to smile. "Do you know baseball? Because in baseball, you'd be out."

"No, I don't know baseball," he said. "I'm new here."