I have a challenge for you, dear reader. As you go about your day, I want you to try to keep a mental note of how many idioms you use in everyday speech.
You know idioms. Those crazy little phrases we use to describe things that, when taken literally, make absolutely no sense. Things like bend over backwards or make ends meet or let the cat out of the bag or money talks or get off my back or jump the gun or it's raining cats and dogs. If you haven't noticed, Americans use a lot of idioms. A LOT OF IDIOMS! I had no idea until I started teaching English just how many idioms we use. And when I try to explain the meaning of an idiom to my students, I end up just using more idioms!
The more I teach, the more I realize how difficult the English language is to learn. Each day, I gain so much respect for my students and their teachers for learning what they know. Just the pronunciation is enough to make anyone pull their hair out! Think about all the different sounds we have from letter combinations. The silent "k" at the beginning of words, or the "ight" or "aught" combinations. Or our failure to pronounce the "ed" at the end of many words. And then we have all those grammar rules which I can't explain to anyone for the life of me! This week the big question circulating my classes is the difference between "when" and "while." Have you ever tried to explain the subtle difference between using these words? Well I have. And I failed.
I keep having to remind the teachers that I. Cannot. Teach. Grammar. End of story. I can speak correctly. I have excellent grammar. But I don't know how to explain sentence structure or parts of speech. When someone asks me, "What is the subjunctive of the past present participle of the transitive form of determiners", I can only respond with a blank stare. And I'm pretty sure that the sentence I just made up is nonsense - I don't think all those grammar things go together. See! I can't even speak intelligently about not knowing how to speak intelligently about grammar! Yikes!
Friday, October 22, 2010
I'm an English Language Whore
Even though at some point everyday I ask myself if this is really my life, I'm starting to feel at home here in Indonesia.
Last night Erin and I went to meet up with a bunch of expats who live here in Medan. There is an Australian English teacher at her school who invited us to join them at a restaurant called Medan Club. I had no idea where I was going. All I had was the address of the restaurant, so I gave it to the taxi driver and, yet again, entrusted my life and safety to the hands of a total stranger who drives like a mad man. He dropped me off in a complex that had several restaurants in it. None of them had a sign that said "Medan Club" so I didn't know which door to enter. I walked toward one building but immediately turned around when I saw that the door said "Members Only." For about ten minutes, I walked around in the parking lot like a major creeper until I could get Erin on the phone to come and find me.
The night picked up from there. When we walked in, the waitresses stopped us at the door to learn our names. This is standard procedure for anywhere I go in this city, but their inquiries had a different tone. Because they see Westerners all the time, they had no need to practice their English with Erin and me. Instead I think they wanted to learn our names to make us feel more comfortable. The impression I get is that once an expat goes to Medan Club, he or she quickly becomes a regular customer.
I do think they were a little excited to see female expats; as it turns out, in a city of two million people, there are only 300 expats. Of those 300, there are no more than 5 women. We asked the men who were there to tell us about some of the other Western women in the city, but they could only think of one woman. They did say that there was an American woman here teaching, but she left after only five days. When we heard that, Erin and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. We understand. We totally understand.
Being a woman in this country is hard. Being a Western woman in this country is really hard. I'm used to a very different way of life. Privacy and independence are difficult concepts for anyone in this culture, but for a woman alone . . . man oh man! I think it's time for an explanation.
In Indonesia, people function as a community. Your family is always first, and your friends and neighbors are a close second. Unlike in America, it is very rare for young adults to move away when they start work or go to college. Children live with their parents until they get married. Sometimes men will move to another city for work and live in an apartment with other friends, but often they will move in with extended family - aunts and uncles, cousins, etc. When I first got here and was trying to make some friends, I asked people what they do for fun. I was expecting to hear them say things like going to the movies, hanging out at coffee shops, or going to dance clubs or karaoke bars (karaoke is HUGE here!). Instead they all said, "We hang out with our families."
Whoa.
For fun? No offense to Mom and Dad - I love y'all and love hanging out with y'all - but really? Hanging out with your families ALL the time? Not at all what I wanted to hear.
To make matters worse, I haven't yet been able to find any Indonesian people my age that I can really see myself becoming friends with. Most of the time, they make me feel like an English language whore. They only want to practice their English with me or try to get me to teach their families or their children English. No one wants to be my friend because they like me for me.
Correction. I feel like no one wants to be my friend just because they like me. I'm sure that it's not true, but right now it's so hard to tell. When the first thing anyone says to me is, "I want to practice English with you" or "Can you teach me English?" it makes it difficult for me to want to move forward with a friendship. Especially when the conversation that follows is so dry and the person so void of personality that we cannot even share a laugh.
Speaking of sharing a laugh, that is something that's hard to do here as well. As I wrote in a previous post, the only laughing I do is at myself. Unless I'm with Erin - we laugh ALL THE TIME! I love her! She's wonderful! But an American sense of humor does not translate well into Indonesian culture. Ever heard of a little thing called sarcasm? Yeah . . . they haven't in Indonesia. They don't understand sarcasm at all. And most people who speak English are very literal. Painfully literal. So I have to watch myself or I could get into a lot of trouble.
The more Indonesian I learn, the easier it will be for me to find Indonesian friends. But because shared interests are still few and far between, we'll see if this can really happen.
Last night Erin and I went to meet up with a bunch of expats who live here in Medan. There is an Australian English teacher at her school who invited us to join them at a restaurant called Medan Club. I had no idea where I was going. All I had was the address of the restaurant, so I gave it to the taxi driver and, yet again, entrusted my life and safety to the hands of a total stranger who drives like a mad man. He dropped me off in a complex that had several restaurants in it. None of them had a sign that said "Medan Club" so I didn't know which door to enter. I walked toward one building but immediately turned around when I saw that the door said "Members Only." For about ten minutes, I walked around in the parking lot like a major creeper until I could get Erin on the phone to come and find me.
The night picked up from there. When we walked in, the waitresses stopped us at the door to learn our names. This is standard procedure for anywhere I go in this city, but their inquiries had a different tone. Because they see Westerners all the time, they had no need to practice their English with Erin and me. Instead I think they wanted to learn our names to make us feel more comfortable. The impression I get is that once an expat goes to Medan Club, he or she quickly becomes a regular customer.
I do think they were a little excited to see female expats; as it turns out, in a city of two million people, there are only 300 expats. Of those 300, there are no more than 5 women. We asked the men who were there to tell us about some of the other Western women in the city, but they could only think of one woman. They did say that there was an American woman here teaching, but she left after only five days. When we heard that, Erin and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. We understand. We totally understand.
Being a woman in this country is hard. Being a Western woman in this country is really hard. I'm used to a very different way of life. Privacy and independence are difficult concepts for anyone in this culture, but for a woman alone . . . man oh man! I think it's time for an explanation.
In Indonesia, people function as a community. Your family is always first, and your friends and neighbors are a close second. Unlike in America, it is very rare for young adults to move away when they start work or go to college. Children live with their parents until they get married. Sometimes men will move to another city for work and live in an apartment with other friends, but often they will move in with extended family - aunts and uncles, cousins, etc. When I first got here and was trying to make some friends, I asked people what they do for fun. I was expecting to hear them say things like going to the movies, hanging out at coffee shops, or going to dance clubs or karaoke bars (karaoke is HUGE here!). Instead they all said, "We hang out with our families."
Whoa.
For fun? No offense to Mom and Dad - I love y'all and love hanging out with y'all - but really? Hanging out with your families ALL the time? Not at all what I wanted to hear.
To make matters worse, I haven't yet been able to find any Indonesian people my age that I can really see myself becoming friends with. Most of the time, they make me feel like an English language whore. They only want to practice their English with me or try to get me to teach their families or their children English. No one wants to be my friend because they like me for me.
Correction. I feel like no one wants to be my friend just because they like me. I'm sure that it's not true, but right now it's so hard to tell. When the first thing anyone says to me is, "I want to practice English with you" or "Can you teach me English?" it makes it difficult for me to want to move forward with a friendship. Especially when the conversation that follows is so dry and the person so void of personality that we cannot even share a laugh.
Speaking of sharing a laugh, that is something that's hard to do here as well. As I wrote in a previous post, the only laughing I do is at myself. Unless I'm with Erin - we laugh ALL THE TIME! I love her! She's wonderful! But an American sense of humor does not translate well into Indonesian culture. Ever heard of a little thing called sarcasm? Yeah . . . they haven't in Indonesia. They don't understand sarcasm at all. And most people who speak English are very literal. Painfully literal. So I have to watch myself or I could get into a lot of trouble.
The more Indonesian I learn, the easier it will be for me to find Indonesian friends. But because shared interests are still few and far between, we'll see if this can really happen.
Monday, October 18, 2010
No Catchy Title, Just an Honest Problem
I've been staring at the forms on my computer for a few hours trying to wrap my head around the idea that it's halfway through October and time to start grad school applications.
Before that, I was staring at my GRE study book trying to muster the courage to open it. Today I am a coward.
For the past few weeks, I've been debating with myself about whether or not I'm ready to go back to school. I know I want to get my masters. There is no doubt about that. But I don't know if I want to get my masters yet.
I really like my life right now. Granted, I am in a unique situation. But I like not having homework all day, every day. I really enjoy being free of that constant nagging guilt that comes from knowing there is always something I should be studying or reading or preparing. I like it that my nights are free and my weekends are for fun.
But I also miss school. I am and always will be a nerd. I miss going to class and learning new things and constantly engaging in theoretical discussions. But I don't know if I miss it enough quite yet.
Part of the problem, too, is that there is only one masters program that I want to apply for, and only one barrier to my application: the GRE. If I was back in the states, it wouldn't be a problem. I would join the droves of terrified, grad school-bound, mentally exhausted people at the testing center and come out five hours later knowing if I had what it takes to get into graduate school. But in Indonesia, it's not so easy. In order to register for the GRE, I have to call internationally to Singapore to schedule a computer test in Jakarta. Then I have to get approval from AMINEF and my school to fly to Jakarta to take the test. Then I have to book a ticket and a hotel, figure out where the testing center is, and hope I can get there in time. Before I came to Indonesia, I thought that this would not be a problem. Now that I'm here, however, it seems so much more difficult. Going anywhere in this city, let alone this country, is never as easy as it seems. Murphy's Law applies all day, every day. Especially in my life. And I'm starting to wonder if I, the girl who never seems to mind getting across these barriers in other areas of my life, want grad school enough right now to deal with all the hassle and the immense cost of getting there.
I'm starting to think that the answer is belum (not yet).
When I came to Indonesia, I made the conscious decision to not make any plans past May 22, 2011. I had no idea what the upcoming year had in store, and I wanted to be open to any opportunity that might come. But one week before I left, I stumbled across the perfect program for me - a Masters in Development Practice at the University of Denver. So on a whim, I bought a GRE book and planned to apply while I'm here.
Now I'm not so sure. Despite my best efforts, I cannot help but think about what happens when I finish my Fulbright grant. Should I go to school? Should I go to work? Should I apply for the Fulbright research grant and spend another year in Indonesia? Should I not worry about it? Should I move back to the states? Should I go to another country? Should I, should I, should I?!
The worst part is that I don't have my support group here with me to help me figure it out. I miss the people who know me best and can listen to what I say and read between the lines and help me realize what the best thing is. It's at times like this that I don't know if I'm lazy, scared, or just not ready.
Before that, I was staring at my GRE study book trying to muster the courage to open it. Today I am a coward.
For the past few weeks, I've been debating with myself about whether or not I'm ready to go back to school. I know I want to get my masters. There is no doubt about that. But I don't know if I want to get my masters yet.
I really like my life right now. Granted, I am in a unique situation. But I like not having homework all day, every day. I really enjoy being free of that constant nagging guilt that comes from knowing there is always something I should be studying or reading or preparing. I like it that my nights are free and my weekends are for fun.
But I also miss school. I am and always will be a nerd. I miss going to class and learning new things and constantly engaging in theoretical discussions. But I don't know if I miss it enough quite yet.
Part of the problem, too, is that there is only one masters program that I want to apply for, and only one barrier to my application: the GRE. If I was back in the states, it wouldn't be a problem. I would join the droves of terrified, grad school-bound, mentally exhausted people at the testing center and come out five hours later knowing if I had what it takes to get into graduate school. But in Indonesia, it's not so easy. In order to register for the GRE, I have to call internationally to Singapore to schedule a computer test in Jakarta. Then I have to get approval from AMINEF and my school to fly to Jakarta to take the test. Then I have to book a ticket and a hotel, figure out where the testing center is, and hope I can get there in time. Before I came to Indonesia, I thought that this would not be a problem. Now that I'm here, however, it seems so much more difficult. Going anywhere in this city, let alone this country, is never as easy as it seems. Murphy's Law applies all day, every day. Especially in my life. And I'm starting to wonder if I, the girl who never seems to mind getting across these barriers in other areas of my life, want grad school enough right now to deal with all the hassle and the immense cost of getting there.
I'm starting to think that the answer is belum (not yet).
When I came to Indonesia, I made the conscious decision to not make any plans past May 22, 2011. I had no idea what the upcoming year had in store, and I wanted to be open to any opportunity that might come. But one week before I left, I stumbled across the perfect program for me - a Masters in Development Practice at the University of Denver. So on a whim, I bought a GRE book and planned to apply while I'm here.
Now I'm not so sure. Despite my best efforts, I cannot help but think about what happens when I finish my Fulbright grant. Should I go to school? Should I go to work? Should I apply for the Fulbright research grant and spend another year in Indonesia? Should I not worry about it? Should I move back to the states? Should I go to another country? Should I, should I, should I?!
The worst part is that I don't have my support group here with me to help me figure it out. I miss the people who know me best and can listen to what I say and read between the lines and help me realize what the best thing is. It's at times like this that I don't know if I'm lazy, scared, or just not ready.
Home Sweet Home
Four weeks and three houses later, I finally have a place to call home. Geez Louise! Here's what happened:
My first apartment, which I described in a previous blog, was really nice. It was in a brand new building, and it came with the sweetest, most hospitable family. But unfortunately, the apartment didn't have a kitchen. Given that I still have regularly scheduled gastrointestinal problems from eating Indonesian food (I now sing Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" in the bathroom), it's absolutely crucial that I can cook for myself. So I moved.
My school found me a really nice house in a safe, quiet area of Medan. It was a beautiful (can't post pictures because the internet is too slow, but I do have them) two bedroom house with a front porch, a spacious kitchen, good water pressure for the shower, and the nicest neighbors. My street was full of young families with great kids, and for two days I was the pied piper of Bandar Khalifah. Unfortunately, within less than a day of moving in, I was voted off the island. Yes, that's right. I got kicked out. Apparently the complex in which I lived was intended for Muslim families, and my single, female, non-Muslim behind was not the right fit for the community. At least, that's what the men said. The women were so mad that I had to leave. But it's okay - in only two days, I forged some great friendships and will be going back once a week to teach the kids English.
Something good always comes out of things like this, though. All of the teachers at my school (who are Muslim) were so appalled that I was being religiously discriminated against. They didn't understand why I had been voted out, and they were so nice to me about it. So when I came to school the day after I'd been voted out and burst into tears from stress and exhaustion, I suddenly had 40 mothers to look out for me. Despite my assurances that I was not crying about having to leave my house, they were convinced that I had received a fatal blow to my heart and a forever-negative impression of Muslims and Indonesia. Really, I was crying because I was tired and homesick and needed an emotional release. I thought (and still think) the reason for me being asked to leave Bandar Khalifah was hilarious (if you know about the stereotype of American women in the developing world, feel free to read between the lines here!) and just one more ridiculous thing to put in the book I will write one day. But because they couldn't understand anything I said between sobs ("I'm just so GASP tired and GASP homesick GASP and I really love GASP Indonesia but GASP some- GASP -times GASP it's just hard because GASP GASP GASP I don't speak the GASP language GASP and I can't GASP eat GASP the GASP fooooood...), they thought the only way to fix me was to get me a new house. So while my Ibu went with me to buy chocolate (the international tear stopper), they all got on their cell phones and started calling people to find a house. By the time I returned, I was hearing about this great house in a nice complex where lots of foreigners live so they won't mind if I live there too. If I remember correctly, the explanation was "They are foreigners like you, so you will have people to talk to." It was really so so nice of them, and I will be forever grateful for their kindness and their hugs.
That very afternoon, I piled into the school van with six other teachers to go look at this house. I had no idea what to expect. We pulled up to this HUGE housing complex with guards out front. After passing through the gate, we drove to this enormous house and got out. This turned out to be the house where the sister of one of the teachers at my school, Ibu Murni, lives. We went inside and had tea and snacks (everywhere you go you have tea and snacks), and then we piled back into the van and went to the house for rent. The complex is so big that Ibu Murni's sister had to get on her motorcycle and lead us to the house. We got out and walked into the cutest little house, complete with a sliding wrought iron gate, a porch, a screen door, and air conditioning in the bedroom. It was so much more than I had ever expected!
The house is beautiful. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious living room, and an open-air kitchen. That's right - my kitchen has three walls. Which means the house gets excellent air circulation! And because AMINEF requires that I have both a Western toilet and a shower, they had to install both in the house. Which means that I got to pick which bathroom got the new hardware. Which means I was able to get them to put the shower head in one bathroom and the toilet in the other. WHICH MEANS that the toilet (and toilet paper) doesn't get wet when I bathe!
While we were looking at the house, the women kept saying that there is a pool inside the complex. I didn't really understand the big deal - I was still pretty overwhelmed from the idea that this could be my home - so I wasn't paying too much attention. As we left, however, they insisted that I see the pool. So we pile into the car again and drive to an enormous rec center inside the complex. On the way, we pass a tennis court, two convenience stores, four internet cafes, three restaurants, and a car-free jogging track. Then we park and walk into a two story building that looks on the outside like an American-style sports complex. We go through the front desk check-in and walk into the outdoor pool area. I was expecting some dinky little kidney-shaped pool with some deck chairs. Boy was I wrong! This is a resort-style pool complete with a separate kiddie pool. Then we walk into the FULLY STOCKED gym with every style of weight lifting equipment ever invented. All of this is available to me for free.
Oh, and my landlady gave me a free motorcycle.
Yeah, life is pretty good.
Calling All Cooks!
Now that I'm at my new house, I want to give a party for the teachers at my school. The only problem is that there are 80 teachers, and I only have two gas burners to cook with. I want to introduce them to American cooking, but given the limits of my preparation resources, it's difficult. Thanks to my dad, however, I now know the best way to feed 80 people: a good old-fashioned Southern Low Country Boil!
The only problem is that I have no idea how to do that. Now, dear readers, I need your help! If you have a great recipe for a Low Country Boil, please send it my way. I'm ready and waiting!
The only problem is that I have no idea how to do that. Now, dear readers, I need your help! If you have a great recipe for a Low Country Boil, please send it my way. I'm ready and waiting!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Motorcycle Mama
I am fully aware that I am long overdue for a blog entry. A lot has happened over the past two weeks, but unfortunately I only have time to elaborate on one important thing.
I am a motorcyclist.
That's right! I have a motorcycle. And I ride it like a pro! Now I no longer have to squeeze into an angkut, hang on for dear life in a becak, or break the bank with a taxi. I am a fully independent woman!
Every morning I go outside my house (oh yeah, now I live in a house. Long story for another blog to come soon), put on my helmet, open my privacy gate, roll my motorcycle onto the road, and shift into gear. I maneuver through the crazy Indonesian traffic without a scratch and park at my school amidst perpetually curious and impressed stares from the teachers, students, and guards. As I throw my leg back over the bike and stand up, I feel unbelievably badass. There is no other word to describe it. Except for I also have a tendency to forget to take the key out of the ignition at school (nowhere else but school), so the guard comes running after me with the key. Needless to say, my high plummets and my cheeks turn red. It is not in my nature to be badass. I'm too absentminded to be anywhere close to that cool.
I am a motorcyclist.
That's right! I have a motorcycle. And I ride it like a pro! Now I no longer have to squeeze into an angkut, hang on for dear life in a becak, or break the bank with a taxi. I am a fully independent woman!
Every morning I go outside my house (oh yeah, now I live in a house. Long story for another blog to come soon), put on my helmet, open my privacy gate, roll my motorcycle onto the road, and shift into gear. I maneuver through the crazy Indonesian traffic without a scratch and park at my school amidst perpetually curious and impressed stares from the teachers, students, and guards. As I throw my leg back over the bike and stand up, I feel unbelievably badass. There is no other word to describe it. Except for I also have a tendency to forget to take the key out of the ignition at school (nowhere else but school), so the guard comes running after me with the key. Needless to say, my high plummets and my cheeks turn red. It is not in my nature to be badass. I'm too absentminded to be anywhere close to that cool.
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