Today marks the beginning of my second week back in the states. I finally feel like I'm back in kilter with my sleep schedule, but my body's a mess.
My first meal back in America was, as planned, my beloved Taco Bell. My parents met me in Atlanta (Mom armed with tears and a bag of fudgy brownies, Dad with a great big smile and a warm hug), and we braved the tropical-level rain (Indonesia doesn't want to let me forget anything). Thankfully Atlanta traffic was nonexistent, and we had a smooth ride home. Oh, and a delicious poser Mexican dinner!
Jet lag had its grips in me before my plane even landed. For those who have never traveled internationally, jet lag isn't just an inability to adjust your sleep schedule. At least not when you're doing a 180 degree switch of 12 hours. My sleep schedule was actually normal. In bed by 10pm, awake by 8am. The problem with jet lag is that it makes your body feel like you ran a marathon without training, shot a gun with kickback that dislocated your shoulder, let a car run over your legs a few times, and overdosed on sodium tablets until your feet swell up to twice their size. It's a bundle of fun.
On top of all this misery, I stupidly ignored the little warning voice in my head that said, "Take it easy with what you eat, Hannah. Your body isn't used to all these preservatives and hormones and chemicals in your food. Your stomach can't handle the richness. Take your time." Instead, I listened to the pulsing message of the PMS estrogen in my body that screamed "BROWNIES!" And I ate the whole pan. Now is definitely the time to say, "Whoa fatty."
I paid the price. I don't know if I picked up a bug on the plane, if I had residual illness from Indonesia, or if my body simply couldn't handle the fat, sugar, and sheer volume of junk that I was shoveling into it. There are too many factors to figure it out. The next day, I was in bed and the bathroom, alternating extreme exhaustion and nausea. But I will say this - I have never enjoyed throwing up as much as I did on that day. I reveled in the clean bathroom, the toilet's flushing mechanism, the sink where I could rinse my face, and the tap water I could use to rinse my mouth. People, you have no idea the things we take for granted!
I'm a few days out from my day of luxurious misery and feeling better, but I still have to watch it. I can't finish a beer. I can't even drink a glass of wine. I'm pretty sure that I've developed lactose intolerance (woe is me!). Any food that isn't roughage gives me the heartburn of a 60 year old Italian man. I don't even like sugary things that much. Ugh. All my dreams of repatriation have been thwarted!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
C! O! RRU! PTION! CORRUPTION!
According to Transparency International, Indonesia is the 63rd most corrupt country in the world. Not bad for a country in which over 90% of its citizens report that religion is a very important part of daily life, according to a Gallup Poll. I think most of the foreigners here have witnessed firsthand the extent of corruption in this country. I know I have (see It's Electric! blog). It extends from the highest to the lowest offices, in government, schools, business, and religion. Although corruption in any of these sectors makes me angry, the one that prompts me to pull out my soapbox is the corruption in education.
School in Indonesia, as in most developing countries, is not free. Although the government funds the schools, students have to pay school fees (tuition), buy their own books, and pay for their own uniforms. This does, of course, ensure that educational opportunities are not, in fact, equal. And as I found out just a few days ago, students even have to buy classroom supplies like desks and chairs on occasion.
This is the way it works at my school. There are three grades, 1st class (10th grade), 2nd class (11th grade), and 3rd class (12th grade). In each grade, there are two superior classes. Don't get me started on that title. Anyway, when I first arrived, I thought that the superior classes were for advanced or gifted students. The teaching conditions are significantly better in the superior classes. There are only 20 students in a class (regular classes have a roll of 40 - 45 kids). They have glass-topped desks, cushy rolling office chairs, TVs and DVD players, and air conditioning. My other classes are barebones - two students to a table, broken chairs, no air circulation, and broken white boards with markers that sometimes work. I thought it was highly irregular to give students all these extra amenities only for being a little smarter than the other kids, but later I learned that test scores have nothing to do with it. In fact, although there are a few very bright kids in these classes (as in every class, not just superior), most are just as average as the rest of them. In Indonesia, you don't test into a superior class in order to engage in a challenging, accelerated curriculum that helps you reach your potential. No, that would be too much work with too little reward. In Indonesia, you buy your way into a superior class.
These students pay almost four times the tuition amount of students in regular classes. That's why they have all the amenities. In addition, the school pays for these students to go on class trips to places like Malaysia or Singapore (I don't know if this is true or not because my Ibu told me, and she often lies about stuff like this to try to impress me). You would think that, for all that money, they would at least be able to get some satisfactory test scores. Nope. I snuck a peak at my students test scores in all the classes that I teach. Well, it wasn't really sneaking. The scores were spread out on the coffee table in the teacher's lounge for teachers and students alike to invade the privacy of each other. Among my 300 students, only 3 scored more than 50% on the national exam in English. In Biology, Chemistry, and Physics not a single student scored higher than 30%. The same in math and Indonesian language arts. The class average for most every subject was an impressive 25% - 35%.
Let's think about this for a moment. When an entire school of students can't even reach a 60% class average, someone or something should be held accountable. But that's not where this school's values lie. Parent's don't get called for failing grades in math and science and writing. That's just normal. But when a student performs poorly on the test for reading the Quran, it warrants a phone call and summons from parents who live 12 hours away in another province. Because he or she can't pronounce Arabic satisfactorily.
Now I realize that my values are polar opposite those of most people at my school, and I try to recognize the value and importance of religion in their lives. And I, like everyone else, certainly don't want to hear an ear-assaulting call to prayer on the corner mosque's loudspeaker. But I tell you, in spite of the multitude of mosques in Indonesia (Macon, GA, with its largest number of churches per capita, better watch out), there are just not enough jobs open for every Muslim man in Medan to be a call-to-prayer man. Math and science jobs? Writing? Reading? Well looky there - they're everywhere! I'm not saying they shouldn't be reprimanded for poor marks in Quranic recitation, I'm just saying that reprimands should apply to all subjects.
After discovering these depressing test scores, I began to wonder: Where does all the money go? I'll tell you! Right into the pockets of --------! When teachers are absent, students tell me that in addition to their tuition, book, and uniform costs and the occasional desk or water dispenser, they also have to pay "maintenance" fees and other fees with no title. Today I finally understood what that meant.
Two weeks ago, I returned from my vacation in Thailand to find the brick-paved school courtyard being torn up and replaced with tiles. I looked at the renovation and wanted to scream. How could the school pay money to make an unnecessary renovation for purely aesthetic reasons when my students have to sit 3-to-a-desk because some of the desks have holes in them? Or when the damage from electrical fire that occurred five months ago and killed the very valuable and educational language laboratory still hadn't been repaired? But I held my tongue and kept my indignation to myself. They're still working on it two weeks later with only about half of the courtyard finished. All I can think to myself as I endure the stares of the workers is that my mom could have finished it in two days.
Anyway, today was my last class with my 11th graders. We were having a grand old celebration - playing games, taking photos, looking at slideshows - when someone knocked on the door. A student opened it, and in walks a teacher followed by the Principal (my favorite person in the whole wide world!). The teacher was carrying a cardboard box filled with money. He made a short speech and then my co-teacher shouted out, "Come on, then. Give some money!" I watched as my students begrudgingly pulled out their wallets. Thinking they were collecting for a charity, I asked my co-teacher who the collection was for in case I also wanted to contribute. She said that the school ran out of money for the tile project on the courtyard and now the students have to pay. She added in a low voice that the teachers also are required to pay. Then she made the face she always makes when she's telling me about something the school does that she doesn't like.
Now let's pause for a minute here and think about this. The students are forced to pay for a renovation that does not in any way benefit or improve their educational experience. Hmmmmmmm. While many of them walk around with the soles of their shoes flopping around, detached from the leather, or when the boys' uniforms rival Britney Spears in tightness because their parents can't afford to keep up with their growth spurts, the principal drives his shiny car and buys his son a new motorcycle. WHAT IS GOING ON?
Did you know that sometimes, when a student fails to meet the required score on their high school entrance exam, they can pay the principal to allow them to attend the school anyway? Did you know that sometimes, a principal at a school will photocopy the national exam questions and answers and distribute them to students so the school's scores will be higher, as will the principal's paychecks? Did you know that in many schools and universities, departments are required to meet a quota for students who pass and that teachers are responsible for modifying their grading rubrics until they meet the quota? Even if not a single student makes a passing grade? A lot of this I hear about from friends of mine who teach in other schools. I never observed it at my school, but I'm not afraid to say that I wouldn't be surprised if any or all of these occurred in my school. When I gave a writing assignment to my students and wouldn't accept the papers that been printed directly from wikipedia or a blog, they didn't understand what they had done wrong. Academic integrity and rigor is not even on their radars because they are never exposed to it. They know that cheating is wrong, but only in a kind of abstract way. The obsession with appearance over substance that I regrettably learned too much about over the past year seeps into the academic system. It's more important that the students walk on a shiny tile floor in the OUTSIDE COURTYARD than it is to prepare them and teach them to grow and learn and build a better future for themselves and their country.
It is with this gruesome truth in mind that I ask: do we need to be sending our tax dollars into a system like this? Does a program like mine really belong in a culture like this? I often wonder if anything I have taught my students about creativity, hard work, honesty, and the joy of learning will stick because I don't think it will ever be reinforced. Can an untrained, inexperienced ESL teacher really make a lasting impact at a school in only nine months? I know a huge part of our jobs is to spread the love of America. I tried, and maybe it worked. Although my students still see me as a white foreigner and not an American, maybe one day someone will say something bad about Americans and they'll think of me and say, "Hey, they're not all so bad." But in my mind, I would much rather my students hate Americans because they are well-educated, well-informed, independent thinkers than love America because they swallow everything they're told without thinking. I worked really hard to paint a fair and accurate picture of America for my students and colleagues. I talked about the good and the bad, the prejudices and the freedoms, the poverty and the opportunities. I was as honest as I could be, and I think they respected me for it. I hope they grew in an understanding and maybe even an appreciation for our culture that reaches beyond MTV and Hollywood. But in reality, I don't know that I made much lasting difference.
School in Indonesia, as in most developing countries, is not free. Although the government funds the schools, students have to pay school fees (tuition), buy their own books, and pay for their own uniforms. This does, of course, ensure that educational opportunities are not, in fact, equal. And as I found out just a few days ago, students even have to buy classroom supplies like desks and chairs on occasion.
This is the way it works at my school. There are three grades, 1st class (10th grade), 2nd class (11th grade), and 3rd class (12th grade). In each grade, there are two superior classes. Don't get me started on that title. Anyway, when I first arrived, I thought that the superior classes were for advanced or gifted students. The teaching conditions are significantly better in the superior classes. There are only 20 students in a class (regular classes have a roll of 40 - 45 kids). They have glass-topped desks, cushy rolling office chairs, TVs and DVD players, and air conditioning. My other classes are barebones - two students to a table, broken chairs, no air circulation, and broken white boards with markers that sometimes work. I thought it was highly irregular to give students all these extra amenities only for being a little smarter than the other kids, but later I learned that test scores have nothing to do with it. In fact, although there are a few very bright kids in these classes (as in every class, not just superior), most are just as average as the rest of them. In Indonesia, you don't test into a superior class in order to engage in a challenging, accelerated curriculum that helps you reach your potential. No, that would be too much work with too little reward. In Indonesia, you buy your way into a superior class.
These students pay almost four times the tuition amount of students in regular classes. That's why they have all the amenities. In addition, the school pays for these students to go on class trips to places like Malaysia or Singapore (I don't know if this is true or not because my Ibu told me, and she often lies about stuff like this to try to impress me). You would think that, for all that money, they would at least be able to get some satisfactory test scores. Nope. I snuck a peak at my students test scores in all the classes that I teach. Well, it wasn't really sneaking. The scores were spread out on the coffee table in the teacher's lounge for teachers and students alike to invade the privacy of each other. Among my 300 students, only 3 scored more than 50% on the national exam in English. In Biology, Chemistry, and Physics not a single student scored higher than 30%. The same in math and Indonesian language arts. The class average for most every subject was an impressive 25% - 35%.
Let's think about this for a moment. When an entire school of students can't even reach a 60% class average, someone or something should be held accountable. But that's not where this school's values lie. Parent's don't get called for failing grades in math and science and writing. That's just normal. But when a student performs poorly on the test for reading the Quran, it warrants a phone call and summons from parents who live 12 hours away in another province. Because he or she can't pronounce Arabic satisfactorily.
Now I realize that my values are polar opposite those of most people at my school, and I try to recognize the value and importance of religion in their lives. And I, like everyone else, certainly don't want to hear an ear-assaulting call to prayer on the corner mosque's loudspeaker. But I tell you, in spite of the multitude of mosques in Indonesia (Macon, GA, with its largest number of churches per capita, better watch out), there are just not enough jobs open for every Muslim man in Medan to be a call-to-prayer man. Math and science jobs? Writing? Reading? Well looky there - they're everywhere! I'm not saying they shouldn't be reprimanded for poor marks in Quranic recitation, I'm just saying that reprimands should apply to all subjects.
After discovering these depressing test scores, I began to wonder: Where does all the money go? I'll tell you! Right into the pockets of --------! When teachers are absent, students tell me that in addition to their tuition, book, and uniform costs and the occasional desk or water dispenser, they also have to pay "maintenance" fees and other fees with no title. Today I finally understood what that meant.
Two weeks ago, I returned from my vacation in Thailand to find the brick-paved school courtyard being torn up and replaced with tiles. I looked at the renovation and wanted to scream. How could the school pay money to make an unnecessary renovation for purely aesthetic reasons when my students have to sit 3-to-a-desk because some of the desks have holes in them? Or when the damage from electrical fire that occurred five months ago and killed the very valuable and educational language laboratory still hadn't been repaired? But I held my tongue and kept my indignation to myself. They're still working on it two weeks later with only about half of the courtyard finished. All I can think to myself as I endure the stares of the workers is that my mom could have finished it in two days.
Anyway, today was my last class with my 11th graders. We were having a grand old celebration - playing games, taking photos, looking at slideshows - when someone knocked on the door. A student opened it, and in walks a teacher followed by the Principal (my favorite person in the whole wide world!). The teacher was carrying a cardboard box filled with money. He made a short speech and then my co-teacher shouted out, "Come on, then. Give some money!" I watched as my students begrudgingly pulled out their wallets. Thinking they were collecting for a charity, I asked my co-teacher who the collection was for in case I also wanted to contribute. She said that the school ran out of money for the tile project on the courtyard and now the students have to pay. She added in a low voice that the teachers also are required to pay. Then she made the face she always makes when she's telling me about something the school does that she doesn't like.
Now let's pause for a minute here and think about this. The students are forced to pay for a renovation that does not in any way benefit or improve their educational experience. Hmmmmmmm. While many of them walk around with the soles of their shoes flopping around, detached from the leather, or when the boys' uniforms rival Britney Spears in tightness because their parents can't afford to keep up with their growth spurts, the principal drives his shiny car and buys his son a new motorcycle. WHAT IS GOING ON?
Did you know that sometimes, when a student fails to meet the required score on their high school entrance exam, they can pay the principal to allow them to attend the school anyway? Did you know that sometimes, a principal at a school will photocopy the national exam questions and answers and distribute them to students so the school's scores will be higher, as will the principal's paychecks? Did you know that in many schools and universities, departments are required to meet a quota for students who pass and that teachers are responsible for modifying their grading rubrics until they meet the quota? Even if not a single student makes a passing grade? A lot of this I hear about from friends of mine who teach in other schools. I never observed it at my school, but I'm not afraid to say that I wouldn't be surprised if any or all of these occurred in my school. When I gave a writing assignment to my students and wouldn't accept the papers that been printed directly from wikipedia or a blog, they didn't understand what they had done wrong. Academic integrity and rigor is not even on their radars because they are never exposed to it. They know that cheating is wrong, but only in a kind of abstract way. The obsession with appearance over substance that I regrettably learned too much about over the past year seeps into the academic system. It's more important that the students walk on a shiny tile floor in the OUTSIDE COURTYARD than it is to prepare them and teach them to grow and learn and build a better future for themselves and their country.
It is with this gruesome truth in mind that I ask: do we need to be sending our tax dollars into a system like this? Does a program like mine really belong in a culture like this? I often wonder if anything I have taught my students about creativity, hard work, honesty, and the joy of learning will stick because I don't think it will ever be reinforced. Can an untrained, inexperienced ESL teacher really make a lasting impact at a school in only nine months? I know a huge part of our jobs is to spread the love of America. I tried, and maybe it worked. Although my students still see me as a white foreigner and not an American, maybe one day someone will say something bad about Americans and they'll think of me and say, "Hey, they're not all so bad." But in my mind, I would much rather my students hate Americans because they are well-educated, well-informed, independent thinkers than love America because they swallow everything they're told without thinking. I worked really hard to paint a fair and accurate picture of America for my students and colleagues. I talked about the good and the bad, the prejudices and the freedoms, the poverty and the opportunities. I was as honest as I could be, and I think they respected me for it. I hope they grew in an understanding and maybe even an appreciation for our culture that reaches beyond MTV and Hollywood. But in reality, I don't know that I made much lasting difference.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Truth Comes Out
One week before I finished my contract, four teachers at my school invited me to lunch. It was the first time in nine months that I had been invited to a non-school social engagement by anyone from my school (except for one really cool old lady who wears a leather jacket when she drives her motorcycle and plays ping pong with me when she's supposed to be praying), and I was happy to accept. These women had been really kind to me throughout my time here, albeit distant, and I was curious to see what they were like outside of school. I had no idea how illuminating the lunch would be.
As we finished eating, I mentioned that I was having a really great time. One of the teachers smiled shyly and said, "Yeah, we wanted to invite you to lunch for a long time, but we didn't want to break the rules." I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I didn't press it. After I got home, though, I started thinking about what she said. Then I remembered some things my counterpart had said to me throughout the year. When the aforementioned really cool old lady took me to her house for tea, my counterpart was really angry. And later in the year, she tried to make me promise never to talk to another English teacher that my counterpart didn't like. As I thought about these and other things, I got suspicious. The next day, I asked one of the teachers from lunch what they meant by "rules." She looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "Oh, well just that we have to ask your counterpart's permission if we want to invite you anywhere." I was shocked and asked her to explain more. She said that my counterpart had told all the teachers at the beginning of the year that, in order to take me anywhere - even to lunch across the street between classes - they had to first get her permission. They had to tell her who was going, where they were taking me, why we were going, how we would get there, and how long it would take. Given that she's not very well-liked and had refused permission to one teacher very early on (her arch nemesis and the one she asked me not to speak to), no one else tried.
I looked at my fellow teacher and said, "But that's not true. It's a lie. That's not a rule." Her eyes were round as saucers as she asked, "Really?" I couldn't believe what I had just heard, and neither could she. I explained that, as an adult and a grown woman, I am perfectly capable of scheduling my own social engagements and do not need anyone to act as my guardian. "In fact," I said, "my counterpart has absolutely no idea what I do when I'm not at school. She doesn't know who my friends are or where I go because she's not my mother." Her mouth dropped open. She said, "But I wanted you to come to my house and meet my children and visit. You mean we could have done that?"
Apparently they decided that, with only a week left, they could throw caution to the wind and go behind my counterpart's back to issue me a lunch invitation. Now it makes sense why they were insistent I not tell my counterpart about it.
Three days after I learned this bit of news, I had a goodbye party with the English Club. My original plan to have them over to my house for some American food was thwarted by my lazy resistance to cleaning and packing and my shrinking budget that just couldn't accommodate import prices for palettes that probably wouldn't even like the food. Instead I bought some pizzas from Pizza Hut (probably a better treat for the students anyway) and brought them to school. I had not spoken to my counterpart since learning of her treachery and was not eager to do so. As the advisor for the English Club, though, I knew she would be at the party. I decided not to confront her about the rule because she could make the lives of the teachers who told me pretty miserable. Instead I opted for the cold shoulder.
She came late to the party. The students were shy about eating the pizza, so they weren't quick to devour it even though their hungry little eyes kept swinging back in the direction of the food. My counterpart arrived as I was taking out my camera, and she insisted on a photo with me. I told her that we should wait until the students finish eating because I didn't want greasy pizza fingers on my camera. She immediately turned to a student and yelled at them to finish immediately so she could have her photo. I put my hand out and said, "No, there is time. They can finish whenever they want." She looked disappointed but didn't say anything else.
After the students finished eating, we took a bunch of photos. There was still enough pizza left for each student to have a couple more slices, so I insisted that they take some home. My counterpart walked over to an almost full cheese pizza (she, never having eaten pizza in her life but insisting she hates it, chose not by flavor but by the largest pizza left), slammed the lid, and declared that she was taking the pizza home to her son. I calmly lifted the lid and said, as if to a child, "No, this pizza is for the students. They should take it home." She threw the lid closed again and said, "No, it's ok. I can take it home to my son. It's ok, no problem." After nine months of her speaking so manipulatively to me, and after the recent realization that my loneliness at the school was due largely to her lies, I wasn't going to take it anymore. Still trying to be nice, I shoved the lid back open and said, "No, it's for the students. If there is still pizza left when they leave, then you can take some home." She stared at me for a second, then said ok. I turned my back to put up my camera and turned around to see her telling the kids, "Don't eat that. It's mine. You can't have it. I want it." Their hands still hovering over the pizza, they froze, then backed away at her bullying. At this point, I lost my temper. In a loud voice, I said, "No, you can't take it with you. This pizza is for the students. They can eat whatever they want. You can't take it home. It's for the students." Then I shoved slices of pizza into every students' hand until the boxes were empty.
I don't think anyone has ever stood up to her like that. She's pretty scary, actually, and most of the other teachers seem to avoid her. I think she was shocked that I wouldn't let her have her way.
For a long time, I've felt sorry for my counterpart. I think she's a very unhappy woman. She is extraordinarily intelligent and works very hard to be a good teacher. And in her defense, when I needed her to help me get a house that meets the conditions of my contract, she was really great. But I think that stems more from her desire to do her job better than anyone else and less from a genuine desire to help me. Also, she's terrified of AMINEF. That always helps.
She told me once that she wanted to be a biologist. She said she really loved biology in high school and was good at it, but her parents insisted she become an English teacher. Her brother got to study whatever he wanted. At that time, she didn't speak any English. Now her vocabulary is really extensive and, although her accent really muddles her pronunciation, she deserves to be admired for her accomplishment. So many Indonesian teachers of foreign languages can barely read a sentence in their second language (this is not just English but German, French, Chinese, etc), so to encounter a person who has worked hard to master such a difficult language (not to mention mastering the art of manipulation in a foreign language) in a culture where it's really not necessary for a teaching position should be noticed.
I often wonder about the reason for her behavior. For the longest time I thought it was something to be pitied, the result of living in a place (not Indonesia in general but her own small society of her family and school) where she can only get what she wants through manipulation and deceit. She comes from Aceh, the notorious Shariah Law province in Indonesia that's known for it's religiously-based violence against women and it's alleged international terrorist training camps. She also works in a school that never gave me the impression of placing much value on women in a non-maternal, non-caretaker sense.
I don't know what her life is like, and I don't know what might have happened that makes her act this way. What I do know is that she crippled me when I was at my most vulnerable, a lonely stranger in a foreign place. It appears that it was for no better reason than to use me as a pawn in her petty departmental politics - "owner" of the bule - thus solidifying my eternal status here as an object, not a human being. Now that I'm removed from the situation, I'm not angry. Instead I only feel sadness and regret for what might have been a very different and much more meaningful experience here. I am glad that I found out about what she did, though, because it left me with a kind of understanding of the past year and a kinder feeling toward the other teachers.
As we finished eating, I mentioned that I was having a really great time. One of the teachers smiled shyly and said, "Yeah, we wanted to invite you to lunch for a long time, but we didn't want to break the rules." I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I didn't press it. After I got home, though, I started thinking about what she said. Then I remembered some things my counterpart had said to me throughout the year. When the aforementioned really cool old lady took me to her house for tea, my counterpart was really angry. And later in the year, she tried to make me promise never to talk to another English teacher that my counterpart didn't like. As I thought about these and other things, I got suspicious. The next day, I asked one of the teachers from lunch what they meant by "rules." She looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "Oh, well just that we have to ask your counterpart's permission if we want to invite you anywhere." I was shocked and asked her to explain more. She said that my counterpart had told all the teachers at the beginning of the year that, in order to take me anywhere - even to lunch across the street between classes - they had to first get her permission. They had to tell her who was going, where they were taking me, why we were going, how we would get there, and how long it would take. Given that she's not very well-liked and had refused permission to one teacher very early on (her arch nemesis and the one she asked me not to speak to), no one else tried.
I looked at my fellow teacher and said, "But that's not true. It's a lie. That's not a rule." Her eyes were round as saucers as she asked, "Really?" I couldn't believe what I had just heard, and neither could she. I explained that, as an adult and a grown woman, I am perfectly capable of scheduling my own social engagements and do not need anyone to act as my guardian. "In fact," I said, "my counterpart has absolutely no idea what I do when I'm not at school. She doesn't know who my friends are or where I go because she's not my mother." Her mouth dropped open. She said, "But I wanted you to come to my house and meet my children and visit. You mean we could have done that?"
Apparently they decided that, with only a week left, they could throw caution to the wind and go behind my counterpart's back to issue me a lunch invitation. Now it makes sense why they were insistent I not tell my counterpart about it.
Three days after I learned this bit of news, I had a goodbye party with the English Club. My original plan to have them over to my house for some American food was thwarted by my lazy resistance to cleaning and packing and my shrinking budget that just couldn't accommodate import prices for palettes that probably wouldn't even like the food. Instead I bought some pizzas from Pizza Hut (probably a better treat for the students anyway) and brought them to school. I had not spoken to my counterpart since learning of her treachery and was not eager to do so. As the advisor for the English Club, though, I knew she would be at the party. I decided not to confront her about the rule because she could make the lives of the teachers who told me pretty miserable. Instead I opted for the cold shoulder.
She came late to the party. The students were shy about eating the pizza, so they weren't quick to devour it even though their hungry little eyes kept swinging back in the direction of the food. My counterpart arrived as I was taking out my camera, and she insisted on a photo with me. I told her that we should wait until the students finish eating because I didn't want greasy pizza fingers on my camera. She immediately turned to a student and yelled at them to finish immediately so she could have her photo. I put my hand out and said, "No, there is time. They can finish whenever they want." She looked disappointed but didn't say anything else.
After the students finished eating, we took a bunch of photos. There was still enough pizza left for each student to have a couple more slices, so I insisted that they take some home. My counterpart walked over to an almost full cheese pizza (she, never having eaten pizza in her life but insisting she hates it, chose not by flavor but by the largest pizza left), slammed the lid, and declared that she was taking the pizza home to her son. I calmly lifted the lid and said, as if to a child, "No, this pizza is for the students. They should take it home." She threw the lid closed again and said, "No, it's ok. I can take it home to my son. It's ok, no problem." After nine months of her speaking so manipulatively to me, and after the recent realization that my loneliness at the school was due largely to her lies, I wasn't going to take it anymore. Still trying to be nice, I shoved the lid back open and said, "No, it's for the students. If there is still pizza left when they leave, then you can take some home." She stared at me for a second, then said ok. I turned my back to put up my camera and turned around to see her telling the kids, "Don't eat that. It's mine. You can't have it. I want it." Their hands still hovering over the pizza, they froze, then backed away at her bullying. At this point, I lost my temper. In a loud voice, I said, "No, you can't take it with you. This pizza is for the students. They can eat whatever they want. You can't take it home. It's for the students." Then I shoved slices of pizza into every students' hand until the boxes were empty.
I don't think anyone has ever stood up to her like that. She's pretty scary, actually, and most of the other teachers seem to avoid her. I think she was shocked that I wouldn't let her have her way.
For a long time, I've felt sorry for my counterpart. I think she's a very unhappy woman. She is extraordinarily intelligent and works very hard to be a good teacher. And in her defense, when I needed her to help me get a house that meets the conditions of my contract, she was really great. But I think that stems more from her desire to do her job better than anyone else and less from a genuine desire to help me. Also, she's terrified of AMINEF. That always helps.
She told me once that she wanted to be a biologist. She said she really loved biology in high school and was good at it, but her parents insisted she become an English teacher. Her brother got to study whatever he wanted. At that time, she didn't speak any English. Now her vocabulary is really extensive and, although her accent really muddles her pronunciation, she deserves to be admired for her accomplishment. So many Indonesian teachers of foreign languages can barely read a sentence in their second language (this is not just English but German, French, Chinese, etc), so to encounter a person who has worked hard to master such a difficult language (not to mention mastering the art of manipulation in a foreign language) in a culture where it's really not necessary for a teaching position should be noticed.
I often wonder about the reason for her behavior. For the longest time I thought it was something to be pitied, the result of living in a place (not Indonesia in general but her own small society of her family and school) where she can only get what she wants through manipulation and deceit. She comes from Aceh, the notorious Shariah Law province in Indonesia that's known for it's religiously-based violence against women and it's alleged international terrorist training camps. She also works in a school that never gave me the impression of placing much value on women in a non-maternal, non-caretaker sense.
I don't know what her life is like, and I don't know what might have happened that makes her act this way. What I do know is that she crippled me when I was at my most vulnerable, a lonely stranger in a foreign place. It appears that it was for no better reason than to use me as a pawn in her petty departmental politics - "owner" of the bule - thus solidifying my eternal status here as an object, not a human being. Now that I'm removed from the situation, I'm not angry. Instead I only feel sadness and regret for what might have been a very different and much more meaningful experience here. I am glad that I found out about what she did, though, because it left me with a kind of understanding of the past year and a kinder feeling toward the other teachers.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Tortured Taste Buds
As I was eating lunch today, the same white rice and chicken that I've had twice a day, almost every day for nine months, I was pleasantly surprised to find a rare treat on television. Every once in awhile, on weekends, Indonesian TV will feature a special from American TV in English. Today I happened upon a show from the Food Network highlighting the success of America's two biggest burger franchises - McDonald's and Burger King. Although the story behind the success of these two competitors was indeed fascinating, I couldn't take my eyes off the nonstop images of burgers, fries, salads, onion rings, sausage, cheese, and milkshakes that filled the screen. For nearly an hour, I was entranced. As I continued to eat my lunch, each bite of white rice got smaller and smaller until, finally, I couldn't bring myself to eat anymore. My taste buds were screaming at me, "Give us flavor! Give us what we see on TV!" And suddenly all I could see, smell, or taste were the foods from home. Scrambled eggs and bacon and sausage and silver dollar pancakes with syrup and cheese grits. Sawmill gravy and biscuits. Collard greens and honey-cured ham and green bean casserole and fresh summer squash roasted in olive oil and rosemary. Warm brownies and rich chocolate cake and fresh cookies. Salmon and mahi-mahi and fresh trout and Cajun shrimp. Tacos and burritos and refried beans and salsa and tortilla chips. Even condiments like stone-ground mustard, Chipotle sauce, real ketchup, horseradish sauce, honey mustard, ranch dressing, balsamic vinaigrette, and barbecue sauce filled my head and refused to leave. And then I stared at my white rice and chicken, seasoned only by the flavorless but eye-wateringly spicy chilies, and my heart sank. It was nothing short of torture.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Nothing Surprises Me Anymore
I am currently renting a room in my friends' dormitory, where I plan to spend my last few days having fun and saying goodbye. Renting a dormitory room is easy - it's pretty much a hotel. An expensive one, though, by Indonesian standards. For Rp100,000 (a little over $10/night), I get a room with a bed, a tv, electricity, a/c, and a bathroom with a dipper bath. Because I know the people who live here, I also get free wifi (but they told me the password, not the caretaker). For half the price, I could get the same thing in the city center, but it's worth it to be with my friends. God knows there is absolutely no other reason to return to this city.
When I got the key to my room this morning, I discovered that the a/c in my room is not working. Because one of my friends, who has now returned to his home country, used to live in this room, I know that the a/c hasn't actually been working for several months and that the so-called attempts to fix it were really just for show. Since I'm recovering from a bad cold and am still feeling pretty irritable and under-the-weather, I decided that I just didn't have the patience to tolerate anymore unnecessary nonsense for the sake of cultural sensitivity.
I went down to the caretaker's room and knocked on the door a few times. He did not answer, so I headed back to the staircase to go back to my stifling hot room. On the way, I noticed a group of men lounging in the back room. I walked back there and found the caretaker surrounded by six or seven buddies. They were gambling (something which is, incidentally, incredibly illegal in Indonesia and haram for Muslims, and they were all Muslim). As I have discovered often happens in Indonesia, when you walk in on a person at their place of work and they are playing Solitaire or making a personal call or, in this case, playing poker, there is not an ounce of shame or guilt at being caught. There is no quick shuffle to hide or disguise the illicit activity but instead a bored look of irritation at the person who has interrupted and an immediate resuming of the activity. As I spoke to the caretaker to tell him my a/c was broken and I wanted to change rooms, he barely looked at me, preferring instead to watch the money being rapidly counted around the table. Finally, exasperated by his complete and utter failure to even pretend to do his job, I told him that I was paying for the room and I expect there to be a/c. He glared at me, then told me that none of the rooms were clean and they would do it later. Then he stood up and claimed a recently abandoned seat in the poker game.
I went back to my room, giving them one hour to finish their game and do their jobs before letting my illness-induced irritability get the better of me. An hour later, I walked back downstairs and into the room where the gambling was continuing. They merely glanced at me, so I left and went and got one of my male friends to come with me. They seem to respond more favorably to men, especially when that man is a head taller than all of them. As soon as we entered the room this time, they jumped up without us having to say anything and said the repairmen were coming to look at the a/c. Two blue-uniformed men slowly relinquished their seats around the table and grabbed a toolbox hidden inside a cabinet. Fifteen minutes later, then sauntered into my room.
I told them that the a/c was not blowing cold air, and they set up a ladder so they could reach the unit. Since a/c units in Indonesia are almost always window units, the cold air blower is inside the room but the motor is outside, mounted on the side of the building. One of the repairmen climbed the ladder, stuck his hand in front of the fan, and said, "Yup, that's not cold." Then his coworker said, "Huh." Then they stared at it for - no joke - TEN MINUTES. Every once in awhile, one of them would mutter something about it not blowing cold air. It was like they were trying to will it to work.
Finally the said something and left the room. They came back with an older man, apparently someone who actually knows what to do, a super special a/c remote, and a length of rope that looked no stronger than twine. For awhile, they merely pointed the super special a/c remote at the unit, turning it on and off. Surprise! No change.
Then it got interesting. One of the repairmen is really bright. Instead of getting a ladder and using that as an aide to examine the motor mounted on the side of the building, he decides to repel out the window. Remember that itty bitty rope I mentioned earlier? Yeah.....
I watched him in disbelief as he wound the twine-like rope around and around, never making a knot but just looping it every once and awhile and pulling. He mounted himself on the windowsill and was just about to jump out with only the unsecured, untested, itty bitty little rope to hold his weight. His friend, who had also been watching, suggested almost as an afterthought that he get a bigger rope. The aspiring mountain climber looked at his friend, looked at the rope, then slowly leaned back to test its strength. A few minutes later, he was using a much more appropriate-sized rope to support a human being.
Now I would just like to say that this is characteristic of most interactions I have with people here. Customer service is unheard of. Work ethic...well, you read for yourself. I wish I could say that was a rare occasion, but it wasn't. In my school, in this university, in the bank, in the mall, at a restaurant - customers are treated as an inconvenience, an interruption to a TV show, a cell phone game, a phone call, or a social visit. It's just the way the culture goes.
When I got the key to my room this morning, I discovered that the a/c in my room is not working. Because one of my friends, who has now returned to his home country, used to live in this room, I know that the a/c hasn't actually been working for several months and that the so-called attempts to fix it were really just for show. Since I'm recovering from a bad cold and am still feeling pretty irritable and under-the-weather, I decided that I just didn't have the patience to tolerate anymore unnecessary nonsense for the sake of cultural sensitivity.
I went down to the caretaker's room and knocked on the door a few times. He did not answer, so I headed back to the staircase to go back to my stifling hot room. On the way, I noticed a group of men lounging in the back room. I walked back there and found the caretaker surrounded by six or seven buddies. They were gambling (something which is, incidentally, incredibly illegal in Indonesia and haram for Muslims, and they were all Muslim). As I have discovered often happens in Indonesia, when you walk in on a person at their place of work and they are playing Solitaire or making a personal call or, in this case, playing poker, there is not an ounce of shame or guilt at being caught. There is no quick shuffle to hide or disguise the illicit activity but instead a bored look of irritation at the person who has interrupted and an immediate resuming of the activity. As I spoke to the caretaker to tell him my a/c was broken and I wanted to change rooms, he barely looked at me, preferring instead to watch the money being rapidly counted around the table. Finally, exasperated by his complete and utter failure to even pretend to do his job, I told him that I was paying for the room and I expect there to be a/c. He glared at me, then told me that none of the rooms were clean and they would do it later. Then he stood up and claimed a recently abandoned seat in the poker game.
I went back to my room, giving them one hour to finish their game and do their jobs before letting my illness-induced irritability get the better of me. An hour later, I walked back downstairs and into the room where the gambling was continuing. They merely glanced at me, so I left and went and got one of my male friends to come with me. They seem to respond more favorably to men, especially when that man is a head taller than all of them. As soon as we entered the room this time, they jumped up without us having to say anything and said the repairmen were coming to look at the a/c. Two blue-uniformed men slowly relinquished their seats around the table and grabbed a toolbox hidden inside a cabinet. Fifteen minutes later, then sauntered into my room.
I told them that the a/c was not blowing cold air, and they set up a ladder so they could reach the unit. Since a/c units in Indonesia are almost always window units, the cold air blower is inside the room but the motor is outside, mounted on the side of the building. One of the repairmen climbed the ladder, stuck his hand in front of the fan, and said, "Yup, that's not cold." Then his coworker said, "Huh." Then they stared at it for - no joke - TEN MINUTES. Every once in awhile, one of them would mutter something about it not blowing cold air. It was like they were trying to will it to work.
Finally the said something and left the room. They came back with an older man, apparently someone who actually knows what to do, a super special a/c remote, and a length of rope that looked no stronger than twine. For awhile, they merely pointed the super special a/c remote at the unit, turning it on and off. Surprise! No change.
Then it got interesting. One of the repairmen is really bright. Instead of getting a ladder and using that as an aide to examine the motor mounted on the side of the building, he decides to repel out the window. Remember that itty bitty rope I mentioned earlier? Yeah.....
I watched him in disbelief as he wound the twine-like rope around and around, never making a knot but just looping it every once and awhile and pulling. He mounted himself on the windowsill and was just about to jump out with only the unsecured, untested, itty bitty little rope to hold his weight. His friend, who had also been watching, suggested almost as an afterthought that he get a bigger rope. The aspiring mountain climber looked at his friend, looked at the rope, then slowly leaned back to test its strength. A few minutes later, he was using a much more appropriate-sized rope to support a human being.
Now I would just like to say that this is characteristic of most interactions I have with people here. Customer service is unheard of. Work ethic...well, you read for yourself. I wish I could say that was a rare occasion, but it wasn't. In my school, in this university, in the bank, in the mall, at a restaurant - customers are treated as an inconvenience, an interruption to a TV show, a cell phone game, a phone call, or a social visit. It's just the way the culture goes.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Story of Anna, Spanglish Teacher in the Dutch East Indies
I want to tell you a story. Now remember, this story is entirely fictitious. It is not at all related to anyone's real life. This story is about a girl named . . . Anna. Although she is from . . . Canada, she lives and works in a foreign country called . . . the Dutch East Indies.
Anna hates her job. She teaches . . . Spanglish to the children of the Dutch East Indies. Everyday she goes into work with a forced smile on her face and a secret resolve never to teach Spanglish again in her entire life no matter how desperate or poor she is, even if Taco Bell isn't hiring. But if she ever does have to teach Spanglish again, it most definitely will not ever be in the Dutch East Indies. Of this she is confident, so much so that she swore she'd rather die than return to the Dutch East Indies.
The sad thing is that Anna didn't always feel this way. In fact, when she first arrived in the Dutch East Indies, she was quite confident that she would flourish and prosper in her new environment. Little did she know what she was in for. When Anna arrived at her school - WOMAN 11 is the name - she was surprised to find that the principal of the school, Mr. McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead, bore a striking resemblance to an Amer...ahem, a Canadian used car salesman. His protruding stomach, his greasy face, his oily mustache, and his too-perfectly-slicked-back hair exuded an attitude of self-important arrogance that gave Anna a bad vibe. Little did she know how right she was to distrust him.
In their first meeting, Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead insisted that Anna wear the traditional clothes of the school, a constricting mummy uniform that trapped the heat in her body and made her sweat bullets every moment she was at work. In spite of the fact that Anna did not subscribe to the beliefs that required women to wear the constricting mummy uniform, she had no choice but to comply. It was only the beginning.
At first Anna was happy to accommodate this aspect of the culture because she wanted to be respectful. As time progressed, however, Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead continued to impose rules and regulations and responsibilities upon Anna that were not within the stipulations of her contract. According to her contract, Anna was not a direct employee of the school and, as such, was not subject to the authority of Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. But Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead didn't seem to care at all about the contract. In fact, he seemed to think he could boss Anna around because she was a woman and he was a man and therefore the naturally superior person. Anna quickly began to resent and revile the principal. When Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead told the other teachers at WOMAN 11 that Anna said they couldn't teach, Anna was advised not to confront the principal about his lies because it was not her place. Anna reluctantly followed this advice, although she regretted it later.
For many months, Anna succeeded in avoiding Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. On the few occasions she did encounter him, she felt violated by his blatant stares at her breasts. She didn't understand why he couldn't look anywhere else. Here she was, wearing the most conservative, culturally sensitive, constricting mummy uniform she could find. She did not feel in the least bit sexy and couldn't even tell by looking in the mirror that she was, in fact, a woman. Yet her Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead continually stared for long, uninterrupted periods at her lady parts. This infuriated her more than ever, especially because she had no real options for addressing this problem except to increase her attempts at avoidance.
This lack of respect from Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead made Anna feel crushed and worthless. She had been working very hard to be a good teacher and do a good job at her school, but the continued shows of disrespect from the principal left her feeling like there was no point. Suddenly the mummy uniform, a benign piece of clothing, became the symbol of all her misery and unhappiness and she loathed wearing it. She had come to learn that the students and teachers at her school had not expected her to wear the mummy uniform and that it was, in fact, just another imposition from Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. Why should she respect him and his rules when he so very clearly did not respect her? Anna did the only thing she could thing of: subversive acts of rebellion. She started small with things like changing into her Western clothes before leaving school in the afternoon, but this was dissatisfying. Eventually she decided to hit Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead where it hurt and deny him the one thing he really wanted: status.
See, in the Dutch East Indies, people from Canada are very special. Not just Canada, actually. Any white person. Their origins don't matter as long as their skin color is pale. And because white people are so special, anyone from the Dutch East Indies who knows a white person immediately increases their social status tenfold. This is why Anna was often encouraged to take photos with Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead and to come to his parties. He was also fond of calling television reporters and forcing her to be profiled on their TV show (she later learned that he was misrepresenting her position and tenure at the school in order to appear to have a native Spanglish speaker on staff permanently and increase his status as a principal - not to mention his paycheck).
It was with all this in mind that Anna stopped taking photos, appearing on video cameras, and attending events at which students were not the focus. Although Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead spoke enough Spanglish and Anna spoke enough of his language that they could communicate with each other, Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead started playing dirty. After Anna started rejecting his invitations, he would go to one of the other Spanglish teachers at the school and make them invite Anna on his behalf. If Anna continued to refuse, the poor Spanglish teacher would get in trouble with Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. The distress in their eyes when she said she already had plans for the scheduled time of the party (the previously-made plans almost always really existed, though, because Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead had a habit of remembering Anna as an afterthought of objectification and rarely gave her notice exceeding 24 hours) caused Anna undue stress. She really hated the idea of Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead abusing his power like that, but she almost always refused to give in.
Finally Anna's contract ended. She was so happy and relieved and ready to go home to Canada and eat some bacon.
Anna hates her job. She teaches . . . Spanglish to the children of the Dutch East Indies. Everyday she goes into work with a forced smile on her face and a secret resolve never to teach Spanglish again in her entire life no matter how desperate or poor she is, even if Taco Bell isn't hiring. But if she ever does have to teach Spanglish again, it most definitely will not ever be in the Dutch East Indies. Of this she is confident, so much so that she swore she'd rather die than return to the Dutch East Indies.
The sad thing is that Anna didn't always feel this way. In fact, when she first arrived in the Dutch East Indies, she was quite confident that she would flourish and prosper in her new environment. Little did she know what she was in for. When Anna arrived at her school - WOMAN 11 is the name - she was surprised to find that the principal of the school, Mr. McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead, bore a striking resemblance to an Amer...ahem, a Canadian used car salesman. His protruding stomach, his greasy face, his oily mustache, and his too-perfectly-slicked-back hair exuded an attitude of self-important arrogance that gave Anna a bad vibe. Little did she know how right she was to distrust him.
In their first meeting, Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead insisted that Anna wear the traditional clothes of the school, a constricting mummy uniform that trapped the heat in her body and made her sweat bullets every moment she was at work. In spite of the fact that Anna did not subscribe to the beliefs that required women to wear the constricting mummy uniform, she had no choice but to comply. It was only the beginning.
At first Anna was happy to accommodate this aspect of the culture because she wanted to be respectful. As time progressed, however, Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead continued to impose rules and regulations and responsibilities upon Anna that were not within the stipulations of her contract. According to her contract, Anna was not a direct employee of the school and, as such, was not subject to the authority of Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. But Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead didn't seem to care at all about the contract. In fact, he seemed to think he could boss Anna around because she was a woman and he was a man and therefore the naturally superior person. Anna quickly began to resent and revile the principal. When Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead told the other teachers at WOMAN 11 that Anna said they couldn't teach, Anna was advised not to confront the principal about his lies because it was not her place. Anna reluctantly followed this advice, although she regretted it later.
For many months, Anna succeeded in avoiding Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. On the few occasions she did encounter him, she felt violated by his blatant stares at her breasts. She didn't understand why he couldn't look anywhere else. Here she was, wearing the most conservative, culturally sensitive, constricting mummy uniform she could find. She did not feel in the least bit sexy and couldn't even tell by looking in the mirror that she was, in fact, a woman. Yet her Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead continually stared for long, uninterrupted periods at her lady parts. This infuriated her more than ever, especially because she had no real options for addressing this problem except to increase her attempts at avoidance.
This lack of respect from Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead made Anna feel crushed and worthless. She had been working very hard to be a good teacher and do a good job at her school, but the continued shows of disrespect from the principal left her feeling like there was no point. Suddenly the mummy uniform, a benign piece of clothing, became the symbol of all her misery and unhappiness and she loathed wearing it. She had come to learn that the students and teachers at her school had not expected her to wear the mummy uniform and that it was, in fact, just another imposition from Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. Why should she respect him and his rules when he so very clearly did not respect her? Anna did the only thing she could thing of: subversive acts of rebellion. She started small with things like changing into her Western clothes before leaving school in the afternoon, but this was dissatisfying. Eventually she decided to hit Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead where it hurt and deny him the one thing he really wanted: status.
See, in the Dutch East Indies, people from Canada are very special. Not just Canada, actually. Any white person. Their origins don't matter as long as their skin color is pale. And because white people are so special, anyone from the Dutch East Indies who knows a white person immediately increases their social status tenfold. This is why Anna was often encouraged to take photos with Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead and to come to his parties. He was also fond of calling television reporters and forcing her to be profiled on their TV show (she later learned that he was misrepresenting her position and tenure at the school in order to appear to have a native Spanglish speaker on staff permanently and increase his status as a principal - not to mention his paycheck).
It was with all this in mind that Anna stopped taking photos, appearing on video cameras, and attending events at which students were not the focus. Although Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead spoke enough Spanglish and Anna spoke enough of his language that they could communicate with each other, Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead started playing dirty. After Anna started rejecting his invitations, he would go to one of the other Spanglish teachers at the school and make them invite Anna on his behalf. If Anna continued to refuse, the poor Spanglish teacher would get in trouble with Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead. The distress in their eyes when she said she already had plans for the scheduled time of the party (the previously-made plans almost always really existed, though, because Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead had a habit of remembering Anna as an afterthought of objectification and rarely gave her notice exceeding 24 hours) caused Anna undue stress. She really hated the idea of Principal McDoody Jerkface Poopyhead abusing his power like that, but she almost always refused to give in.
Finally Anna's contract ended. She was so happy and relieved and ready to go home to Canada and eat some bacon.
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