Post 14: All I Am

I was told by one of my teachers in high school that studies show the attention span of the average adult to be about seven minutes. I do not think I am an exception to this rule especially where writings blogs are concerned. I am not bored with telling people about my life, but I just do not like writing about it. I like too much to attempt to personalize details and stories and tangents to my audience. My audience is too wide to do that easily. I have thought about what I want to spend the next seven (to fifteen) minutes talking about: my identity.

How can I cover my identity in fifteen minutes? Well, I better not waste any time.

Today was a completely free day. I did not have to go to school. I did not have to pack by backpack and head off for an English camp or travel anywhere. I literally got to just stay home. That should be liberating, right? Well, it was definitely nice to not wake up to an alarm clock, but I must say that it was also a little…jarring.

I finally Skyped with one of my friends from back home, and she remarked that I was an English teacher. Well, of course I am an English teacher. Okay, technically, I am an English Teaching Assistant. Close enough. Now, what did she mean? I shall tell you.

Being an ETA in Malaysia, I don’t have much of an identity outside of my job at school. Although this is not the case for many or most ETAs, it has become apparent to me that I am an ETA in Malaysia and that is about it. Every weekend, more or less, I am at an English camp. That is English teaching work. Throughout the week, I go to school at the beginning of each school day and often stay until the end of the day. Sounds like English teaching, does it not? When students are not fasting, I usually have some after-school activity with them to boost their English skills and to keep me from having idle hands. More English teaching. In the evenings, I am occasionally invited to share a meal with my students. I comply because I love spending time with my students and also feel like I need to give them as many opportunities in this ten month period to practice their English. After all, I often find that my students learn more from me outside of the classroom than in it. Those meals out are just more English teaching.

My friend also asked how learning Malay was going. I honestly had to tell her that it was not really going anywhere. Though I pick up the occasional word here and there, I did not dedicate the time and effort that I thought I would. Though it is exciting and interesting to pick up a new language and also relieves some of the frustration of not knowing what is happening around oneself, in a small town where I have no anonymity, I ran into a problem. I must have come to the conclusion subconsciously because I needed this aforementioned friend to draw it to my attention. However, going out into the community and trying to intentionally and awkwardly carry on conversations in Malay is not really possible.

Most of my students are very shy. Some, I admit, are also a bit lazy. They do not like to try and do not like to embarrass themselves by speaking English. I mean, I understand. No one likes to be embarrassed. Many of my students would not make the effort to speak English to me if they thought I understood Malay or found out I was trying to learn Malay. They far prefer to teach me Malay than the other way around. Thus, while living in a town where everything and anything gets around (Malays are really excellent gossips as a general rule), speaking Malay is not really an option. So how am I supposed to learn the language? I can’t. Not in any authentic and regular fashion. In other words, because I am dedicated to teaching English, I have given up on one of my aspirations while being in Malaysia.

This sort of sounds like I am bragging about how dedicated I am to teaching English. That is not my intention at all. Honestly, I was rather shocked today to realize that I don’t do anything else besides teach English or do things that have to do with English teaching. Yes, I travel on some weekends to hang out with other ETAs. We talk about teaching and our students though since they encompass such a large portion of our lives. Then those other weekends, again, are English camps.

Is it wrong to be so devoted to teaching English? I mean, you may as well give it your all since you only have ten months. However, I am starting to have to think a little more seriously about my future after my grant here is up. What do I do next? I don’t know. Teaching seems like a good option, but oh what a different teaching experience that will certainly be. Can I do that? Can I go back to having a life outside of being a teacher? I think I should. I think that would be healthy. I need to go back to having a social life outside of school.

Since being in Malaysia, I started to make this mental list of all the things that I want to do when I return home. Most of them are the extra stuff – the less logistical parts of life. I know that I will need a job to pay off my student loans and that I want to go back to graduate school and continue my studies in…something. However, Malaysia has definitely shown me that there is more to life and that moments and opportunities need to be seized if they are available. When you are not a teacher, you are not supposed to use those vacant moments just to hang around and get on the internet. Do something!

Just in case you are curious, here are some of the random (and possibly unrealistic) aspirations I have for when I come home. I really do hope that I do some of them:

- learn a musical instrument (too many people have told me that I look like I play oboe; perhaps I should try it)

- take art classes (cash in on an I-owe-you-a-quilting-class gift and maybe feel some clay between my fingers again)
- travel to see all the friends and family I have missed and love so dearly
- train for and do a triathalon

- volunteer

- help with my dad’s ministry (I have made excuses for FAR too long and have known it deep down)

- study a foreign language

- dance (maybe I will take dance lessons or try those ballet exercise classes or just show up at a swing club, but I want to feel a rhythm and have a dancing partner again since that is actually allowed in the United States. Holding hands is not scandalous.)

- practice my cooking skills (I like being domestic in some fashions, and when I have all cooking equipment I am familiar with at my disposal, I want to use it to the fullest!)

And that’s my fifteen minutes! Have any more ideas about what I should do with my life or where I should do it? Feel free. Being an ETA in Malaysia has made me realize that my formative years are not over yet. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Do you?

Post 13: The Egg and I

I’m officially on vacation now.

Everyone working in schools in all Malaysia is on vacation thanks to the Ministry of Education. First they gave us Friday off then, what the hey, they gave us Thursday off as well. Of course, my students were thrilled minus the fact that they suddenly had more exams in a span of three days. Everyone was pretty squirrely today up through, of course, a special assembly for Hari Raya Aidilfitri (the big Muslim celebration that follows Ramadhan).

Well, I think I am actually going to have time to relax for the next couple of days. It feels like I’ve forgotten how to do just that after constantly being on the go for months, but the relaxation won’t last too long. MY BROTHER IS COMING ON SATURDAY! I will take the morning bus out of my little town and meet him Kuala Lumpur for yet another adventure to begin. What are we going to do? The plan is climb the tallest mountain in South East Asia: Gunung Kinabalu. With any luck and a lot of determination (and probably buckets of perspiration), we will summit this wannabe fourteener. I’m sure I’ll regret every extra kuih sagu and bit of fried food I’ve consumed over the past several months on the way up.

Speaking of food, I would like to dedicate this blog to another bit of important minutiae of my life here in Malaysia: eggs.

Eggs? Yes, eggs.

I will be the first to admit that I do not like or rather…I did not like eggs. When I was little, I remembered that the only form I found acceptable for eggs was in the coating of the French Toast my father would make on Sunday mornings. I would still reluctantly eat the middle of the French toast though because it was more egg-y than the crust.

As I grew older, I tolerated eggs a little better. I still never ordered them of my own volition. When my family would make our traditional scramble during the holidays or any other family gathering we could use an excuse, I would ask for the mix (potatoes and b***n) before we would mix in the eggs.

Sophomore year of college came around. I still didn’t like to eat eggs. If I had to, I would take a few mouths of scrambled eggs as long as I swallowed them with something else. This was the case on tours in Europe when their continental breakfasts had little to offer a gluten-intolerant human being who didn’t feel like being adventurous in the morning. Granted, I am not that adventurous with food in general. I would also eat the yolks of boiled eggs. Did I seek out eggs though? Obviously, not.

The summer of after the sophomore year of college changed my life. I spent a six-week stint in Indonesia. And man, let me tell you, I ate a lot of eggs while I was there. Indonesians like eggs. They really liked to make me eggs because of their beloved kecap manis. Kecap manis is not a gluten-free sauce that they unabashedly add to just about everything so whenever a meal was provided, the host would usually panic and serve me eggs as an apologetic substitute for the main protein. Politely, I ate them – boiled, sunnyside up, scrambled, and fried. Personally, I enjoyed when they would be a little creative with their scrambled eggs and make them really flat and cut them into strips or use them as a tortilla to wrap around my rice. Even when I could eat the main dish, many dishes in Indonesia are topped with a nice, hard, sunnyside-up egg.

Coming back from Indonesia, I thought I was cured of my disdain for eggs.

I distinctly remember one morning my senior year of college. I thought it would be nice to just scramble two eggs for myself. Just two eggs. I would not make anything to go with them. I prepared them without making the eggs too dry or turning them brown. Not bad. I took one bite. I took two. On the third, my gag reflex suddenly reacted. My body said, “I reject straight egg!” Apparently, eggs and I were still not compatible. Back to the drawing board and making sure eggs were always mixed with things and that the eggs were never EVER runny.

Well, it’s a year after graduating from college. I have long since passed the halfway point of my ETA grant. So how do I feel about eggs?

Let me tell you.

A quote from Julie & Julia: “I thought eggs were going to be greasy and slimy, but it tastes like cheese sauce….yum.”

I have watched that movie several times since being here in Malaysia, and I must say that I agree with Julie. For so long, in my life, I have found eggs greasy or, at the very least, slimy. Runny yolks were absolutely horrifying. However, since coming to Malaysia where everyone loves to leave the yolk runny on top of fried rice, I have found the “cheese sauce” quality of eggs! It brings things together in a creamy and, yes, almost cheesy way. I love that about fried eggs.

Now hold on a second, I still don’t eat eggs plain. I have yet to jump that hurdle. However, I now seek out eggs. I want my fried egg on top of rice. I want a fried egg (over a boiled one) with my nasi lemak (a famous Malaysian dish that has a sweet chili sauce, an egg, and rice steamed in coconut milk). I want telur dadar (their version of an omelet with chilies and onions in it) with my dinner. I like nasi goreng pattaya every day (fried rice in a scrambled egg pocket). My special fried rice that the canteen lady makes for me even has a fried egg on top, and it’s not right when the assistant makes it and fries the egg hard.

What has Malaysia done to me? It has done a lot more than change my taste buds which still miss American fare when dear people from back home don’t send me really expensive boxes full of baking mixes. It’s hard to put into words what Malaysia has done to me at this point. I probably won’t be able to say until I look back on my time here. It is still a good time though despite drudgery and days I just want to fall asleep at my desk in the teachers’ room. I try not to resent all the fried foods that have added five pounds to my midsection and just keep using that stationary bicycle and dragging Patricia along with me. I love spending time with my students outside of school when my schedule allows and throwing away my weekends to do yet another English camp. Life here is fun but hard and different and would not be doable on a long-term basis. Seize the day though, right?

Before I move on, I realized I left out some details on eggs and Malaysia.

Bunga telur. Malaysians like to make these really ornate bouquets of eggs for special ceremonies and ceremonies. The eggs are wrapped in tool and tied to sticks that have fabric flowers on the end. These sticks are then all stabbed into a stand and given away to guests. Sometimes the whole bouquet is given to a person.

Malaysians love all sorts of eggs. I don’t even recognize all of them, but you can go to an egg stand and buy a variety of eggs. Some of the eggs are covered in black. Some have been fermented. Some eggs are small – from little birds. Some are the rich duck eggs. Malaysians like to make their eggs super salty for some dishes. Then there are eggs in korma. How could I have forgotten all these other varieties? How dare I have a post about eggs and leave these details out? Well, now you know.

Post 12: Here Kucing, Kucing, Kucing!

I am failing at keeping a blog! If you are shocked by this fact, I feel a bit sorry for you. I am absolutely dreadful at maintaining blogs. To be honest, I’m fairly proud of myself for maintaining a blog even this infrequently. I guess I just struggle with the purpose of writing a general update for the world to see or…with the idea that anyone can read the letter (including my students) without actually knowing if anyone will read it. And then those who do read it, many of you I stay in contact with anyway so why be repetitive and redundant. Probably because I leave things out and a rant about cats doesn’t seem appropriate when I’m just on the phone. Which is why now seems like such a wonderful time to talk about cats!

Wait…what? That’s right, I am dedicating this entry to cats. Yes, many things happen in my life on a regular and daily basis some of which seem important and others not so much. Since I last wrote, my students performed at the state-level choral speaking competition and didn’t place but made me proud; I have been part of more English camps; I have had a training session in TESOL; I have traveled by bus to Mersing; I have started fasting for Ramadhan. All sorts of good times. However, these are not the reasons why I am writing today.

No particular reason comes to mind as to why today of all days I want to write to you about the cats of Malaysia, but it needs to happen. I even made a note to talk about this a few months back because felines are such a constant part of my life in Malaysia?

Do I have a pet cat? No. I have not been hosting a secret pet cat in my quarters. It’s not even against the rules like it was back in college. So think again! In fact, I wish that it was against the rule.

This is becoming very disorganized. I am going to start over.

Malaysia has a cat problem.

I am not sure why.

Will you see the occasional stray dog? Yes, but the number of stray cats to stray dogs is a ratio of maybe twenty or thirty to one. Cats are everywhere – scrawny cats of all colours.

I delight in the nasal wake-up call every morning when I walk down to the first floor and catch a lovely whiff of cat urine. It’s a delightful stench that makes my nose want to shrivel and fall off to avoid repeating the experience for the hundredth time. However, my nose, thus far, has remained attached to my face.

Shortly after this daily occurrence, I want to just click my heels together in glee when I have to watch where I step while unlocking my motorbike. The sand and gravel of the parking lot is just a giant litter box. Didn’t you know? Splendid. If a pile of sand is not an anthill which is deadly in it of itself, beware that mound of dust; it has an even more fragrant surprise in store.

Where do all these cats come from that leave aromatic treasures in my day-to-day life?

Well, the people on the first floor of my apartment building own three (or was it six?) cats that roam free and stink up the place but there are far more than those few.

Explanatory anecdote: I know a police inspector and his wife in town. They have an interesting relationship though I won’t get into all of that here. Because he works nights and she works days, the wife is often lonely. As one means to try and alleviate his wife’s loneliness, the husband gave the wife two kittens. When my roommate and I asked about the cats a few weeks later, we were told that the cats ran away because the wife forgot to feed them.

Have you ever paused to think that Bob Barker actually had a good reason o tell you to spay and neuter your pets, your cats and dogs? I never gave it much thought. Malaysia has forced me to think about it far more seriously. After all, because of little concern for breeding, there are breeding, disgusting, mangy, stinky cats running amuck all over Malaysia! They are in the garbage cans, cowering in stairwells, relieving themselves in teachers’ rooms, hiding in students’ desks, defecating in parking lots, and reproducing in the school canteens. Not to mention, they are a hazard while driving motorbikes.

Need I say more?

Oh, but I can!

Cat tails. Have you ever given them much thought? I used to enjoy watching the flick of my family’s cat’s tail. It always told me whether she was truly sleeping or faking it. Josie’s tail would flick with a very special kind of annoyance when she was actually awake but wanted to sleep. Still, I knew she wouldn’t mind if I disturbed her slumber to stroke her or cuddle with her on the couch.

Malaysian cats don’t have tails like Josie does. Most of them don’t have the same length of tail that domestic cats do in the United States. Some have no tails. Some have a bob. Some have a stumpy tail. Some tails just seem short. Others look like little clubs because they are a fat ball at the end. How do the cats end up having tails like this? I’m not sure. Sometimes, I think it is due to breeding. However, some of the tails, I swear are broken. In fact, when I was in Indonesia, I was told by a local that they had to break a cat’s tail to keep evil spirits away. Do Malaysians believe the same thing? I have never gotten it confirmed.

However, Malaysians do love these disgusting cats. They pick up the pathetic little mewling kittens which look no more than a few days old. They coddle and feed and flea-bitten, one-eyed feline wonders that dare to jump up on their plastic-covered tables and attempt to eat their scraps. Do they take any of the cats home? Do they clean any of them up? Do they make any commitment to becoming an owner of a cat and give the poor thing a better life? No.

So the cat crisis continues. I continue to leave a stinky apartment to enter a smelly teachers’ room. I continue to shoo cats away from the table and off my bag. I continue to give a head nod to the troll cat who guards the bridge I take to cross over into town. And sadly, yes, I continue to shake my head at the ETAs who take pity on strays to give them a better life for a little while only to, inevitably, desert them in a fewmonths.

Dear Malaysians, if you love cats so much, take care of them. If you don’t love them, getting rid of them does not mean introducing your un-spayed, pet-for-a-week female cat to the five tom cats yowling in the street. It’ll end badly for everyone.

The end.

Post 11: Hit the Ground Running

It’s been a while. What can I say, I’ve been busy.

Coming into this entry, I thought about the fact that sometimes I feel like Gulliver here in Malaysia. No, I’m not comparing my blog to the brilliance of Jonathan Swift’s novel. I was mostly thinking about how I wake up in the middle of the night feeling pinned down by bites of angry insects and that I have often found ants crawling all over me and all over my apartment as if I’ve invaded their tiny world. Then again, I sometimes feel very, very small and lost in the big (but small) realm of Malaysia.

Since I last wrote, I enjoyed a wonderful two-week holiday with visiting family (my older sister, my mother and my father only, for, alas, my older brother could not make it); I also started school again. I have been immersed in training for choral speaking because, that’s right, my students are going to state; and I helped to lead my second English camp.

My students did not win district. No no, they are winners only by default. For whatever reason (probably he laziness that seems to permeates the Malaysian education system), all the other schools who had claimed to have choral speaking groups decided to withdraw. So here goes nothing! This Friday! Ah!

This Friday, I will leave with my 35 children (that’s right, I managed to wrangle 35 students to stay in choral speaking though many regularly inform me that they want to quit for a variety of reasons) to go to a nearby school in Bentong and compete with ten other schools for the state title. We are easily the underdogs of the competition and, to be frank, I don’t think we have a chance of winning. Do we have a chance of not being last place? I think so. I hope so. You see, all the other schools who are competing at this level are boarding schools. Boarding schools in Malaysia are the more elite schools. Not to mention, it’s about ten times easier to gather students for practice because they all live at the school. I, on the other hand, have to hope that my students feel inclined to find some mode of transportation to the school on any given day (except for now because our principal is making us practice during school hours. In other words, I’m not teaching my regular classes; I just teach chorals peaking practice for hours on end and sweat through a baju kurung doing it). Sorry for the long sentence.

To reward my students who have definitely been working hard and are tired of choral speaking, I am baking them peanut butter cookies at this moment. I’ve made enough so that each student can have, at least, two cookies (if they’re willing to eat the more burned ones). The baking process has been incredibly slow though. I can only bake nine cookies at a time. And the whole process of baking a batch and cleaning the tray and everything (I’m using sheets of foil to expedite the process) takes about fifteen minutes. You do the math as to how long this baking process has been taking.

As of today, there has been some sad news. I had heard the whispers of it over the past weekend where I was running around like a crazy person trying to organize 110 Form 1, 2, and 3 students with the help of eleven other ETAs. For now, yet another ETA is leaving Malaysia because of irreconcilable conflicts at her school. She is the third ETA who will be leaving the program though this if the first because of problems at school. One of the others was homesick beyond sanity and the other one had a severe enough concussion that returning to the States to be observed was necessary. No one ever expects these things to happen, but at the same time, one knows they do happen. As part of the fledgling expansion of the ETA program here, the school incident has a higher likelihood of happening. The previous two ETA departures were unfortunate and unexpected also, but this one with the ETA-school conflict is a little more frightening.

Needless to say, I haven’t been in a normal rhythm here since I last wrote which is the primary reason why I haven’t written. I’ve just had my nose to the grindstone trying to power through a cold, having a blast, raising morale, organizing games, and so on and so forth. Things will probably come to a crashing halt as Ramadan is right around the bend, but until then, I imagine that my activity schedule is going to be heavy.

I’m trying to keep this brief rather than exploding with all the cooped-up thoughts I have. I keep having to run away to check the oven and my little batches of cookies. I hope to write more in the coming days.

Rest assured, I am doing well. Life has its stress and strains, but I continue to be blessed with good people who really seem to care and genuinely appreciate my presence. My PPD (district education) officer told me today that I was “one of the success stories” which was a tremendous compliment though I still have four months to have unforeseen problems. Regardless, I look to the future with hope.

Post 10: About Choral Speaking

I leave for choral speaking in fifteen minutes. It seems like an appropriate time to type up another little update and post about my life. In more general news, I have almost reached the official halfway point of my time here. It will occur while I am partaking in my two-week school holiday with my parents (and sister) as we travel through part of Thailand, touch our toes in Cambodia, and move through some of the sites of Malaysia. However, I did have a mid-year meeting with the other ETAs last week which went well, and I just continue to press on with lessons and the regular pitfalls, drama, and tidbits of fun and joy that come with being an ETA in Malaysia.

Alright! It’s finally time to talk about choral speaking.

Usually, throughout the day, my little students will pop into my room or find me in the hall to ask me if we have choral speaking. The conversation goes something like this:

“Teacher, ada choral speaking?”

“What?” I always act like I have no idea what they possibly said.

They pause as they think about how to translate before saying, “Today have choral speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Four?” They hold up for fingers to double-check that I understand.

I nod and say, “Yes, at four.” I usually hold up four fingers, too.

“Until?”

This is my favourite part of the conversation. Before I answer them, they try and bargain with how soon we will leave practice.

“4:30?” They ask hopefully though they know I will never agree to that.

“No! Students are still arriving at 4:30. We can only finish at 4:30 if everyone comes on time.”

“Five, teacher, five.” The student will plead holding out their hand with all five fingers.

“We’ll see,” I say with a smile. “If everyone is good, we will finish at five. If you are naughty, 5:30.”

“Aw, teacher,” they whine slightly though they’re half smiling.

I shoo them away knowing that I’ll see them later.

I always leave for choral speaking at 3:50pm. It guarantees that I will arrive with the first batch of students returning from their homes. Some students do not have enough time to leave school at 2:40pm and make it back for practice so some of them are already wandering around the hall. Typically, one or two of them will announce my arrival as I pull up on my motorbike and come greet me with some piece of news. They’ll inform me that another student isn’t coming or just complain to me that they are tired or hungry or that someone smells because they did not have a chance to go home and bathe. I take it all in with smiles and usher them back into the hall where there are, at least, fans.

Malaysians are stereotyped as not being punctual. It’s a fair stereotype. Though I would like to start practice at four or shortly thereafter, we usually don’t start until 4:15 to 4:30 because I simply do not have enough students to start warming up or anything else. Sometimes this is frustrating, but I am undeniably accustomed to it at this point. You must always be ready on time just in case a Malaysian feels like being punctual, but one must also be patient enough for the Malaysians who choose to show up a half hour to two hours later than expected.

Today is my choral speaking group’s last practice before the two-week break. I’m hoping they don’t forget everything in that time because they all have memories like goldfish. Sometimes this means that they forget to show up for practice. Most of the time it just means that if they do not practice every other day, they will forget the lines.

Nevertheless, I must say how proud I am of my students already even if we haven’t won anything or competed at this point.

The very first practice I had, I remember how much I was sweating. I stared out at a sea of little Malaysian faces that were squirming and uncomfortable and nervous. I was nervous too. I’ve never been a conductor or a leader or really done much in performing. I always just watch. I don’t participate. And yet, here I was needing to be the conductor of a choral speaking group and show them how to speak and perform and throw energy into their voices and do motions in sync. What a daunting task. It didn’t help when I was told my initial script was too hard and too long so I chopped it to one page. Even then, students told me it was too long. I encouraged them that they could learn it with time. Then, of course, I found out about the rules for the choral speaking performance. Now my script was too short. So I added two pages. That really thrilled the students. But bit by bit and piece by piece, we broke it down and spoke it. Often, it is still not clear what they are saying or, now that they know the words, it is just a race to the end, but we are getting somewhere.

When practice starts, I assemble my students into three groups: walrus, oyster, and carpenter. My original script was the poem “The Walrus and the Carpenter” by Lewis Carroll. It’s changed since then, but a walrus, oysters, and a carpenter still play roles. I just tell them that we are going to run through the script and hold up my fist. As their conductor (for warm-up only as there is a student conductor), I wait until their eyes are on me enough to see the count of one…two…three…

Then they are off and reciting. Some of them are dancing in place. Others look like corpses on their feet. Some like to punch one another or swing their arms like airplanes and smack the students next to them. Some still squeeze their hands together nervously. They look like a mess for every warm-up. Standing still is impossible, but I let it happen just as long as they will remember to do the motions as well as wiggle all over. This is what I get for having students from the ages of twelve to seventeen. It is a fun bunch though.

After warm-up, I do a variety of things. Each practice, I can only really focus on one aspect at a time. Sometimes, we work on memorization in the areas of the performance where the students are still struggling or are still week. Sometimes, I focus on the motions and making them synchronized and energetic. Other days, I just work on pronunciation, volume control, and speed. Slowly, they work towards a better version of their choral speaking selves.

There are regular breaks at choral speaking. There are days where in an hour, my students have managed to do the entire script twice. I would call that a bad day, and they wonder why I don’t let them leave early. However, if I don’t give them a breather to talk and wander and kick one another, they will not perform at all. Really, sometimes I just feel like a wrangler of some wild animal that is semi sentient since we speak different languages.

Nevertheless, as time has gone by, I know they understand me better. They may not like being able to understand my instructions when It defies their shy natures and the lazy personas they’ve learned to adopt after so much discouragement from teachers. We carry on though and laugh and smile and have breakthroughs in conversation as well as run into many, many walls.

That is a summary of choral speaking in fifteen minutes.

Post 9: A Day in the Life Continued

Alright, I think I am going to continue talking about my daily life in these little chunks. Especially because though I took a weekend trip with my school which was fun and has resulted in my current sick state, it can be summarized fairly quickly.

Katie’s attempt at a summary: I went on a three-day-weekend trip with some of the faculty and staff from my school this past weekend. My mentor could not attend so she sent her niece with me to be my personal translator and so she could practice her English. We took a bus there and back which blasts air-conditioning. I bought a blanket for the trip back because I was so chilled on the 9-hour-long drive up. We went to the island of Langkawi which is a popular shopping spot for Malaysians because it’s duty free. There was a lot of shopping. I bought key-chains for my choral speaking students because it’s expected that you bring souvenirs back for friends and family. We went island hopping a little bit (I swam in a freshwater lake and taught a Malay girl how to swim). I road on a cable car (you would think it was a roller coaster with how much the Malays tremble with fear). We even had a BBQ by the sea. Oh, and I slept in a room with four other Malays and there were only three twin-sized beds – COZY! The Malays shopped so much that we didn’t arrive home until 1:30am on Tuesday, and I had to teach that day (oh, and did I mention I hadn’t finished my lesson plans yet?). There.

The drive to school.

Driving to school is pretty uneventful. It’s a fairly straight stretch of road. I turn out of the parking lot and then wait at the light. Someone recently ran into the light across the street so I depend on the countdown for the intersecting traffic because I know when it reaches 30, it means that my light should be green. So I drive to school with traffic zooming by me. The road curves a little left and a little right, but nothing special. The most eventful part is probably the turn across traffic and the hill I have to climb on my motorbike once I’m in the school gate. I drive up past the hall (where we have assembly on Monday and choral speaking practice), past the field, and up and around the canteen (cafeteria) and various school buildings. I park under a little cover, take off my helmet, and usually hear a disembodied voice that says, “Good morning, Miss Katie” or “Good morning, teacher!” I’ll look around and then respond with a wave, a smile, and “Good morning” or “How are you?”

“How are you” is an extremely common phrase. We all say it all the time and read into what people’s responses are on a regular basis. In Malaysia, the reply is the most robotic “fine” you have ever heard in your life. I don’t think they even know what the word “fine” means half the time. Thus, in some of my classes, I’ve told them never to answer with just “fine” because it makes me sad. They have to say “well” or “awesome” or “great” or “tired” or something that’s a bit more interesting. Yes, I realize that we native speakers use “fine” constantly, but when we say “fine,” secondary meaning is discernible by tone. Because of the degree of fluency of most of my students, tone is still in process.

Right, so I walk between the two main buildings and climb to the first floor. I go into the office, punch my little card on the time clock that’s seven minutes slow, sign my name in the teacher attendance book and do one of two things. Option one: I go turn on the computer and the photocopiers because I have some sort of handout I want to print and then make copies of. Option two (which can also be the only option depending on the day): I leave the office, go upstairs, and take out my key to the Bilik Sal (Resource Room). I unlock the door, take off my shoes, and walk across the tile floor to where my desk is in the corner. I drop my bag, unload my various notebooks and prepare for the day. Which may include a peek down at what's happening at the morning's assembly.

Except for Tuesday, I don’t have a class for the very first period of the day so I can sort of settle in and wrap my head around the lesson I have for the day and brace for various student encounters in and out of class.

My usual day consists typically of journaling on my experiences here, reflecting on the lessons I teach, reading, documenting all my activities in the school, talking to students, teaching, arranging programs, informing students about practice, and eating or having tea at the canteen. On any given day, I do all those things with just some emphasis on one aspect or another.

When I’m finished teaching for the day or when school is out (some days, I go home early), I drive back to the apartment, change, possibly have a rest or snack or check e-mail or simply breathe in my apartment for a few minutes before I turn back around and go to choral speaking practice. I’ve described what choral speaking is, but not what a choral speaking practice is like, but that will have to wait for next time.

Post 8: A Usual Morning

It has come to my attention that, of course, my writings thus far have provided a rather porous understanding of what it is that I do here on a regular basis. Like all my other posts thus far, this will not be exhaustive, but I’ll try to just write about a little chunk of my life in the next…fifteen minutes because then I am heading out, and I’ll see how far I get in telling you a touch more about my daily life.

It begins at 5:55am. That is when my alarm clock starts blaring from the little side table beside my bed. I reach over stiffly and strike it into momentary silence. I consider whether I want to wake up just yet or risk not getting into the bathroom first. Some mornings, it’s worth being annoyed about having to wait to use the bathroom to just lie in sticky black for a little while.

What do I mean by sticky? Oh, but of course! I’m a little sweaty when I wake up in the morning. When one does not have air-conditioning and the world outside is perpetually warm, that happens. I mean, I may sleep with a sheet over me on cooler nights. Most days, I just lay on top of my stiff foam mattress and call it good as I rest my head on my stiff foam pillow. My accommodations are not complex. That is okay.

So I wake up and slowly move through my fourth-floor apartment to the kitchen. I take out a pot, fill it with a little bit of water, set it on my two-burner “stove” and start my water boiling. Every morning, I have oatmeal. Any of my roommates from university know that this is not very different from what I did there (except I might rotate with Chex or granola, but those options are not available to me). While the water is heating, I take a bowl from the drying rack, a spoon, spoon out a serving of brown sugar in the bowl, and wait for the tell-tale bubbling from the pot. I cook up some oatmeal, and go sit in a chair by the fan so I can stay cool while eating my piping-hot breakfast.

Most mornings, I get up and open as many windows and doors as I can to help cool the place down. The reason I do not keep them open all night is to keep nature out. Having lizards in the house is very annoying and occasionally messy if not just startling. It is not fun to almost step on a lizard. It is not fun dealing with lizard poop. It is also not fun when one accidently squishes or dismembers a lizard and then has to clean that up. In addition, insects that like to bite visit in the evening so sleeping is a time to be attacked. Alas, another reason not to keep windows open even if they would provide a degree of coolness. There are no screens on the windows.

Once the oatmeal is eaten and I’ve enjoyed some sleepy meditations over methodically masticating mush, I go and wash my dishes. One must always wash the dishes! Ants love to eat anything and everything if flies do not. Thus, to keep the kitchen and home clear of more things that bite the skin and crawl all over, cleanliness is definitely a virtue. I do not always succeed and then must start a bleach battle.

From washing dishes, I brush my teeth and then have some quiet time. To, ya know, be quiet.

Just before seven, it is time to don my school attire. The night before, I always select the appropriate baju kurung for that day. I cannot always be trusted to make decisions of such importance in the morning so I  pull one out of my little closet the night before. This is partially due to the fact that every Thursday, I’m supposed to wear the traditional batik to school and have forgotten in a sleepier state. Furthermore, on Wednesdays, we have special activities in the morning which might also demand different attire. With a baju kurung on and my bangs clipped back so they don’t flop all over my face and stick there as I’m sweating through my teaching hours, I am ready to head out the door.

By 7:10am, I am descending from my floor down to the parking lot.

In the “car park,” I head over the corner where they sometimes burn trash. This is where I park my motorbike, Eisenhower aka Ike. I’m not sure why a Yamaha Lagenda should be named Ike. It makes about as much sense as naming a Subaru Outback Arturo. However, with the combination of a long, dignified name and a really sharp nickname, it gives me opportunities to be affectionate to my motorbike on its good days as well as (mentally or out loud) yell at it when it feels, yet again, like being obstinate. If all goes well, I start my motorbike and head for school.

And that’s how much I can type in fifteen minutes.