Hitting the Wall

So do you feel it yet? The after Thanksgiving blues? Do your legs feel heavy, your brain woozy, and your heart nearly give out by the very thought of entering the classroom come Monday morning? And do your students look at you like this? Or worse: do you AGREE with them?

Well, honey, it ain't just the stuffing. And trust me, you are not alone. While we can speculate on reasons, teacher and student burnout after Thanksgiving is widely reported in educational circles. I think of it as something akin to hitting the wall in a marathon. If you are unfamiliar with the term, hitting the wall refers to how your body feels after running your first 20 miles. However positive you may have been feeling previous to mile 20, when you hit the wall something happens to the body that simply can't be explained unless you've done it. But let me try in 6 brief sentences:

1. You can't catch your breath (but you CAN feel the tendons all the way down the length of your legs).

2. You can actually TRACE the entire shape of your kidneys in your mind.

3. You're thirsty but your stomach is sloshing with water.

4. All your senses are dull except for your ability to register pain.

5. You keep registering images after they have long left your view ("Was that a car accident I saw at mile 18?" you wonder at mile 22).

6. And above all, you just want everything to stop.

If you do stop, by the way, it is often referred to in running circles as "bonking." (A popular sports drink now boasts the slogan, "Don't bonk.")

And the student equivalent to this, as I implied, happens precisely on November 29th. Yay for today! And here is a peek at some of the results:

(P.S. This is NOT a class doing a sleep deprivation study. It's just a class. And NO it's not mine. Rude.)

Ah, the merriment of the holidays! Well, now that I have set this festive tone, I'd like to ask teachers how they overcome the "after-the-holidays blues."

And so in today’s post I ask a simple question: what do YOU do when you hit the wall? (Besides cry.)

Oh, and don't bonk.

(dramatization: no students were hurt in the taking of this photograph)

Which are YOU? Take the Pepsi challenge.

As far as I have been able to surmise, there are a lot of binary opposites among ESL teachers. Think of it as a Coke/Pepsi kind of a thing. For those of you that aren't ESL professionals, let me explain the difference and have you reflect which one you might be. Coke, or Pepsi?

Coke: (Classic, traditional) Some ESL teachers, for example, see themselves as primarily grammar teachers. To advocates, they are the keepers of the linguistic gate. They are the ones who have truly paid their dues and can, upon request, recite two reasons for the present perfect and the three purposes of the passive voice. They are smart (they do know the rules, after all), well-respected, and have tremendous influence in ESL circles. However, to the naysayers, these teachers move their way through classes like sharks hunting amidst a school of fish. Their focus is to eradicate errors. Their goal is accuracy, and they never realize that accuracy is a far cry from actual competent use of language. Who cares if you speak accurately if you have nothing important to say? And, one could argue, a knowledge of a thousand rules doesn’t really translate to real performative competence anyway (i.e. just because I read a lot of books about basketball doesn’t make me Michael Jordan).

Pepsi (Daring, new) Other teachers take the opposite approach. You might think of them as content teachers. They are those who teach away from the English language and focus on a set of skills or knowledge that they perceive as being valuable to the student. They might teach autobiography, history, resume writing, engineering, or nursing. They focus less on the actual form of language and move toward subject matter. To proponents, these are those who understand that language is a medium for communication, and that errors are simply part of any process to learn a second language. In short, they don’t care so much that students say something right as much as to say something meaningful. Risk and meaning are paramount: pillars of virtue upon which this method rests. To critics, these teachers are hippie feel-gooders with low standards and little understanding of grammar. If these ESL hacks knew the rules, it is implied, they would teach students about them.

Here is a metaphor to delineate the difference. In it, you’ll need to think “words” every time I say “clothes.”

I think of the first kind of ESL teacher as the kind of fussy OCD type that cannot resist the urge to organize a clothes drawer. If the clothes are out of order, how will you ever find them? They arrange by size, color, and function from suits, jackets, shirts, and slacks, all the way down to the sock drawer (formal socks go HERE, casual HERE, and sports HERE). Aside: my grandfather insisted that by safety pinning each pair of sock as soon as he took them off, he never lost another sock again. Such elegant efficiency appealed to the man. Anyway, these teachers are the organizers of chaos. They are the efficient, snappy dressers of language.

I think of the second kind of ESL teacher as the fashion conscious. This teacher doesn’t care so much about organizing the socks by type and function, rather this teacher thinks of how fun it is to be creative with clothes. This teacher will get out all the clothes, mess them up, play with them, and come up with an arrangement that is pleasing and original. This teacher will encourage others to do the same. The teacher will discuss how one might dress and for what purpose one might dress just so. This teacher is interested in trying to show students their own sense of style and that the whole reason for clothes isn’t for them to hang in a closet, rather clothes are for the wearing.


And these two different types, like a bickering married couple, tend to upset the other.
“Can’t you understand” says the first, “how important it is to keep things clean? Then you could FIND stuff.”


“Can’t you understand,” says the second, “that in order to find what I like, I have to make a mess of it?”


So which are you?

Pop Flies in the Sun

I have a friend, Kate, who tells about her son’s frustrations on a baseball team here in Arizona. The coach, a rather strict disciplinarian, has all the members of the team catch pop flies in the sun. A pop fly is, for those of you unfamiliar with baseball, a ball hit ridiculously high into the air. Pop flies are routinely caught by professional players, but can still cause lots of problems for the under-initiated.

This is because as soon as the ball is hit, it can seem to disappear into the sky and then, just as quickly, come hurtling back to earth. With the sun in your eyes, this difficult task can become nearly impossible. You try to shield your eyes with your glove, your hand, your cap, but the sun is ALWAYS larger than the ball. You try squinting or looking at a different part of the sky, but as the ball approaches you say, “To heck with this!” and brave the pain of direct sunlight. Since you are crazy enough to put your FACE between the ground and this seemingly meteoric object, you are absolutely certain that you are about to be bludgeoned to death. And just before impact, you have a deepened appreciation for a peculiar law of nature: staring at too much light causes you to see pitch black.

Can you imagine how you would feel if your coach actually MAKES you endure this exercise. On purpose? And not only make you catch one pop fly in the sun, but make a repeated drill out of it.

As I mentioned, Kate’s son comes home upset. “Coach made us catch fly balls in the sun!” he complains. He continues his tirade by expressing how it doesn’t make any sense, it hurts the eyes and the face, and he doesn’t see the correlation between burned eyes and actually playing in a baseball game.

It isn’t until game time, however, that coach’s seemingly cruel drills pay off. The team is in the midst of a crucial game. Kate’s son, predictably, plays in the outfield and, as is the case in Arizona, is facing the sun (inexplicably, this happens in Arizona no matter what direction you are facing). A ball is struck, disappears high in the air, and then descends upon our hapless player. He stares at the sun in hopes to see the ball, grits his teeth, and with the determined ferocity and tenacious hope that comes with practice, he catches it. This causes the team to burst into celebration. A crucial game is won.

Kate relates this story to the student/teacher relationship inside the classroom. The coach is the teacher in a classroom; Kate’s son is a lot like the students we teach. They tend to complain and to moan when they don’t understand our purpose, and sometimes even see us as cruel dictators intent on harming them. Sometimes, I submit, that is true (teachers can be a melancholic bunch), however, more often than not, teachers aim to prepare students for future contexts. Teachers, good teachers, seek to anticipate what the students need even before the students know it.

You see, teachers, good teachers, love their students. Burned corneas and all. And that is why I invite you to go out to the middle of the field and prepare to be bludgeoned. Just trust me.

Undiscovered Country

Anyone know what bulimic learning is? You can probably guess the meaning without too much effort, but let me give you my definition. Bulimic learning refers to the student body practice of memorizing facts exclusively for a test, then disregarding those facts (purging) as soon as the test is over.

Bulimic learning is the kind of learning most of us, I believe, were accustomed to in high school and college. We memorized a bunch of facts the night before, we regurgitated these facts onto the test paper the following day, and then promptly purged ourselves of the information we had just gorged upon. And just as someone who suffers from bulimia gains no nutritional value from food, so we gained no educational value from our classes.

I remember that in college, usually on Fridays, my friends and I would have particularly difficult examinations. It was after these arduous exams that we would pay a visit to the apartment hot tub and begin the process of "freeing" ourselves from the burdens of what we regarded as useless information. We would soak into the hot water and literally feel our knowledge melt away. Thus freed from such space-hogging clutter, we were left to ask those questions that burn upon the minds of the most gifted scholars. (Questions such as "Why do hands get so pruney?" and "whose turn is it to turn on the jets?")

"Ah!" I would think to myself, "I can FEEL myself getting dumber." When farting in the hot tub seemed funny to us, we knew our purge was complete.

My point in bringing up bulimic learning is to start a little investigation into true learning environments. Obviously, as a teacher, I want to encourage students to move beyond bulimic learning, and I think that this must start with me. I want to move beyond cramming my students full of irrelevant information, and I want to do this by giving them ideas that truly matter. And I want to find techniques that will allow them to care about this information and keep it in reserve for when it is truly needed.

One of the greatest problems in American education is the belief that a test proves students have learned. I think many people would agree with me when I say this, yet it remains a cornerstone of how education works all over the world. I guess this is because people are always thinking that there is no way around it. Maybe you, yourself, are thinking, "but Shane, what do we do? What are the alternatives?"

Well, thanks for chiming in, Sparky. That is an excellent question. What ARE the alternatives to this memorization madness? Gosh, first off. I don't know. It isn't that I'm opposed to tests, it's just that....well, I'll give some of my own ideas on in my next post. Remind me to tell you the pop fly story.

Until then, how about some of YOU tell me? I'll ask this question in a different way so that you can see what I'm fishing for. Could anyone tell me a story about a class where they really learned? About a class that moved beyond the words in a textbook and into the skills and ideas that currently shape who you are and what you do? Into that undiscovered country from whose bourne few travelers return?

Tell me about it. Let the ideas soak in the hot tub of your own brains (Seth, Abdu, and Sparky, I'm especially looking at you). I'll meet you next Friday and we can discuss. Bring your own towels.

Checkpoint 17

..........................................................................................................

I've made some friends along this two-month journey of mine. And I've made these friends in strange places. In particular, I am speaking of and to the soldiers at checkpoint 17, international zone, Baghdad, Iraq.


Checkpoint 17 boasts massive 15-foot t-walls on either side of the road and down the middle, making it look something akin to a large car wash as you enter inside and park. Sheet metal has been placed on top of these t-walls to complete that illusion. On either side of these massive walls, there are benches to sit down on and a tarp overhead to block us from the sun. It is there where we are patted down and asked to turn off our cell phones. Then we wait as the soldiers and bomb sniffing dogs examine the vehicles. Gigantic cooling fans are located just off to the right as you are invited to take a seat. It is austere yet bland, and the soldiers' tan uniforms fit right in.


There are two exceptions to the bland nature of the checkpoint. First, a massive mural entitled, "Peruanos en Iraq" (Peruvians in Iraq) impresses in both size and detail. Second, off to the left of the benches is another t-wall that a soldier has drawn on. This one showcases a portrait of Jesus holding in his arms what I presume is a soldier, his head tilted back as if injured or dying. Above this sketch, a caption reads, "Dios, perdoname" or "God, forgive me."

As you might have already surmised, these soldiers are neither Iraqi nor American, but from Latin America and Africa. The soldiers are deferential and efficient. Each day to the Al Rasheed hotel we pass through the checkpoint. The process is ordinary (if a process could be a color, it'd be beige too). Get out. Leave the bags in the car. Show your passport.


And then it starts to happen. after the first week I begin to see it: these half offers of smiles, these small words of comfort, "here you go, my friend." "No problem." "Hello, good morning." "How are you, my friend?" (Latinos always say 'my friend'). Within the second week there are several who begin asking questions. And upon discovering we are American English teachers, well! We are treated with a whole new level of openness. They are curious about us and curious about learning English. They ask questions. We answer. And we start to feel something akin to friendship.

One of the soldiers, Ricardo, carries a notebook with him. For a time he approaches me almost daily and asks me about certain words and their meanings in English. He is reading a newspaper daily. He often asks me how to say things I am at a loss for, but we negotiate possible answers until he is satisified and he scribbles my answers in his notebook. I find I look forward to the image of a soldier slinging his automatic weapon to the side, grabbing pad and pencil and shouting "teacher, teacher, how you say..."

And so we are becoming more and more familiar. In fact, one day a soldier is bold enough to call Kim "bonita," and she responds like a whip and gives him a retort.

"So do you talk that way to all the ladies?" she asks in crisp Spanish. He is embarrassed. He didn't know, he says. He is so sorry. She speaks Spanish? Her ability to respond has left him stunned and impressed. Later, each time he sees her he will treat Kim with what I can only describe as shoeshine boy courtesy. He smiles at her. He opens her door. He responds to her with a slight half bow, slightly hunched. His smile is winning and I think she gives him a look that lets him know he is off the hook, at least as long as he stays on good behavior.

And the other soldiers smile at us. Their smiles are winning and honest. Each day they venture more and increase in their boldness to talk to us. Some want to speak in English. Some speak to me in Spanish. They come one by one, like at a doctor's office, probably to ensure that the supervisor, who is at a distance, is not alarmed by our collegiality. They share stories about their own lives. They give email addresses. They ask us to stay in touch. They wonder if there is a place for them in America. Is Phoenix a good place to live? Yes, I say. It is wonderful. They light up like Christmas tree ornaments.

As you can imagine, I find myself more and more looking forward to the checkpoint. I look for Michael, the group's favorite Ugandan, to flash us his million dollar smile. I look for familiar faces and am disappointed when they are not there. I desperately want to take a picture, but realize the impossibility of such a requeest.

Two months later, on our last day through the checkpoint, I am finding it unexpectedly hard to say goodbye. These are men that leave wives and children behind for a year at a time, only to receive a short trip home before they return. They work long hard days in the long hot sun, and it seems to me that any sense of the normal, of the outside world is a welcome change to them. I feel a little guilty to leave them after such a short time. I feel like I'm one of them, in this strange way.

I think the best way I can describe it is that we had a sort of shared suffering, a bond of understanding that came from the fact that we were all strangers in a strange land. Regardless of the fact that we weren't from the same country, I always carried that sense that we were experiencing something together. We spoke of the dust and heat with disdain, we spoke of returning home to see our families. We talked of the foods we missed and what we would do upon our returns. We talked about possibilities, futures beyond the borders of the checkpoint.

In a way, it was as if the checkpoint weren't a place at all, but a place to imagine places. On a particularly hot day, one of the soldiers and I literally closed our eyes and imagined the beach. Mine was in San Diego. His was in Lima. We were anywhere but checkpoint 17.

And so we left just like that yesterday, and now I am writing in a hotel in Istanbul.

And so it was that on our last day of training, we shook hands with several of these checkpoint soldiers, then left them standing at attention, waving to us as we piled into the van and pulled away. As we bid our final goodbyes, I felt a genuine sense of loss as we watched them move out of our sights.

From within the vehicle, Kim and I both spontaneously put our fists to our hearts, an Arabic gesture we both learned while in Iraq. The soldiers returned in kind, leaving their weapons slung to their side, moving their fists toward their body, with their heads bowed slightly.

Goodbye, my friends.

Mistah Scahtt

Today I'm going to write about the only person who has faced the whole length of the Iraq experience with me. His name is Scott Welsh. He is originally from Phoenix, although he has spent time in China, Taiwan, and has vast experience in South Asian cultures.

I am fascinated by his stories of those cultures much like Marie fascinated me with her talk of the Middle East (she lived in Iran and Saudi Arabia). He sports a goatee, prefers jeans to slacks (me too!), and loves himself an iced tea.

--

He and I are different in a lot of regards-I think I'm more of a touchy-feely teacher, and I'd describe him as more gifted than me at breaking down difficult information and making it appear accessible, fascinating even (he's the Malcolm Gladwell of ESL teachers). While he tends to view things through a leftist lens, and I tend to see things through a right-leaning or moderate lens, I never feel threatened for sharing my view, and he always listens carefully. He and I find common ground in a surprising number of areas, something that may or may not surprise him, but is certainly refreshing for me.

--

And yet, through all of our differences, I find that there is a lot more I share in common with him. We are both children of the 80's and can finish each other's lines when we are quoting from an 80's movie or song. We both love music, love the mind-expanding nature of being inside other cultures, and like the possibility of having our paradigms shift as a result. And so I wanted to make sure that I wrote down a few of my thoughts about why I'm glad he came along to make this whole experience more bearable. You'll excuse me if this gets to sound like a eulogy. (Dear Scott's mom: he's just fine.)
--

Scott cares about others. He is generous, perhaps to a fault, and I have noticed how he tends to make sure that people are taken care of. Case in point: He found out that one of the guards here likes the TV show Lost. Since then, Scott goes out of his way to make sure the guard is invited to watch the show with us each Friday. He gives considerate gifts consistently (a candy bar for me on my birthday, a Corona for Kim on hers), and makes sure that everyone has an equal say. He is an egalitarian in the best of ways: by paying attention to the details of others' lives.

But here's another thing I like that swings him in another direction. Scott also pays attention to the big picture. Since he is a political soul (and I mean that in the best sense I can) he cares about the world outside of himself. He is one willing to defend his views both with his own experiences and with a rational discussion about world events. He definitely sees victims - winners and losers - in his tapestry of intellectual discussion, and it is enjoyable to see him weave world events into a cohesive whole. I get a sense that he cares for those who have been wronged and has a strong distaste for corruption, and I think that is why I naturally get along with him. He likes to defend the little guy, widen perspectives with information, and employ rigorous intellect to do so.

But really, really, the thing that makes this whole Baghdad thing an easier pill to swallow is that he is a clown. As you can imagine, there is so little normalcy in our compound inside the international zone--including its location. On one side of us there a military base, on another we just miss bordering the Tigris river, and on the other two sides we border mostly abandoned landmarks of a once-vaunted regime (Google "Crossing Swords Monument"). So in this place where things are far from normal, nothing is more necessary than the willingness to find humor and a chance for fun in everything.

And Scott, you see, knows how to make Baghdad fun! He plays with language and gives excellent one-liners. He is never so seriously entrenched in discussion that he won't allow the freedom to laugh and make others laugh. Nothing epitomizes this better than his willingness to act the part of a genie in a small home video I made for my kids. He dressed up in complete genie attire, and ad-libbed a scene that had the kids back at home responding to him as if it were live. In the video I rub a "magic lamp." Scott hid behind a curtain until it was his cue.

"Hey kids!" Said Scott the genie. His head swayed behind a curtain that he placed perfectly in front of him, making it appear that his head was floating above the lamp. This prompted children to call this (and I quote) "cool" and "creepy."

Scott knows how to have fun.

And so it should come as no surprise that we have decorated a bedroom entirely in silly pictures to welcome back an AED employee who arrived yesterday. Nor should it surprise you that he spearheads chess tournaments (to which I consistently decline), gin rummy events (of which he accuses Kim of cheating), and has tried to acculturate as many people as possible to the world of "Dr. Horrible's Sing -along Blog. "

"Bad horse," we'll sing at the Al Rasheed as we get ready for classes, "the thoroughbred of sin / he got your application / you just sent in ..."

Okay. I guess you'll have to see it.

So anyway, Scott makes this entire surreal ride just a little more fun. We all find ourselves looking at Baghdad in a more appreciative way, and I believe that because of Scott the surreal images all around us are imbued with the natural movement of a Salvador Dali painting.

So to Scott I just want to say: thanks for making the ride a little less bumpy. Good companions on a rough road will do that.

The Excitement of Success

Students make the letters, "ASU"! Here they come!

I hope the Iraqi trainers don't mind that I post a few emails I have recently received from them. Some recently wrote me to give me updates on their own training and some because they have been accepted for additional training stateside. Since teachers like me don't generally get paid in cash, and I submit that we are not crazy (at least a great many of us), than there must be something else we get paid in. Here is that something.

Hello Shane,

This is Hawzhen, the actor! I am doing well. It is really great to hear from you. The workshops changed my lifestyle in everything, not only teaching. We came back to our college and really did a great job. We held meetings with other teachers to discuss what we learned from Baghdad.

Thanks for your help. I will get passport in the next three or four days. I have sent 2 emails for Husna and asked for the deadline, but she has not answered me yet. Anyhow, I will get it and send it to her. I wish to see you and the other dear teachers, who have really showed and opened new gates for my life career (that's teaching).

Please, if you are in Baghdad, take care of yourself. Pass my greetings to the other great teachers.

Send you all my love from my heart,

Hawzhen

Hi Shane,

There is a statement that says "he who is away from the eyes is away from the heart," but I think you and other wonderful team reversed this meaning. Believe me, I remember you every time whenever you spoke about teaching and humanity. I respect the man who left his family and came to country with so much unrest to teach and help Iraqi teachers.

Dheyaa

Dear Shane,

I'm so happy to hear from you and I hope you, your wife and the three lovely kids are OK. Really, I miss you and your lectures so much.

I'd like to tell you that we have been chosen for a 7-week workshop at Arizona University the next month and we are so eager to see you, Scott, and Marie.

Untill then, see you and may God saves you and be in peace

Regards,

Hasan Hameed

Hi Shane

I want to let you know that I have started a new stage in my teaching because of what I got from the training course. I discovered that there is inside me a great teacher that can emerge. For the first time I feel that my students really like what I give them; and that they can enjoy reading plays and even some of them try to give me ideas of how to appreciate what they've got.

I remember that I told you that I would use the strategies I have got for the course in my drama class and with Sami's help ... we are doing it. Thanx for the nice photo.

Be safe, be happy and always take care.

Yours,
Amaal J.

Hello Sir,

I hope you are fine.

I do miss you and miss to your kindly and lovably words in your speech and your romantic songs. I wish you to send me your kind and romantic songs, especially with their words in order to sing them with my students.

By the way, I am gonna teach English as a Second Language in the Lebanon Institute in Anbar Governance besides doing my current job as a teacher of English language and literature at Ramadi High School.

I am gonna follow your ways and steps of teaching. Am looking forward to meeting you all once again in near future. Thanks a lot.

Best Regards ...

Mustafa R. Ali

Hello, Shane!

How are you? I'm MARWA from the trainers 4 ever and this is my email. I want to tell you that I recevied an invitation to go to America and visit your university.

When Ussama told me I danced in the school and in that moment I thought that my heart will stop from the happiness because I remember when I told you that maybe one day we will meet in AMERICA. I think when he said these words the doors of the sky were opened.

See you in your country and I hope you keep in touch with me.

Marwa

"It Don't Mean a Thing..."

"I am incapable of telling you not to feel. Feel, feel, I say-feel for all you're worth, and even if it half kills you, for that is the only way to live, especially to live at this terrible pressure, and the only way to honor and celebrate these admirable beings who are our pride and our inspiration. "

I remember the first time I heard a bomb here in Iraq. I had to sit down and I almost cried. I thought of children wailing at the scene of the incident. I imagined women huddled over bodies. I thought of sirens, gurneys, body bags, shouting, looking amidst rubble, and I thought of all of the unspeakable realities that were associated with this sound. This sound seemed to reverberate clear through the walls and shake me. I had never heard a sound quite like it.

Now, almost five weeks from that event, I wonder if I haven't become callous. I am, in fact, still seeing and hearing incredible events that you would think I might blog about. For example, I spoke to a man just yesterday who tells how his security team was caravanning across a bridge in armored vehicles. Just then a bomb went off underneath the last car, an armored Hyundai, lifting it several feet in the air. Upon touching the ground again (the man telling me the story smiled as he said this part) there was nothing for the pasengers to do but keep on driving. The team in front of them simply laughed and laughed as those in the Hyundai cursed their luck with a series of expletives, gestures, and facial expressions.

And among my own students there have been incidents, though I am happy to report that they are all safe. Here are two of the latest excuses my students have had for being late to our workshop (all verified, by the way, in case you thought we might have students come up with creative excuses):
1. A bomb blew out the windows of my home
2. The checkpoint in front of us was bombed, so we had to find an alternate route

So, yeah, I guess having your home nearly bombed is a pretty good excuse.

And here is the thing that you may have noticed if you have followed my blog ... I haven't even thought of writing these experiences down lately. And it makes me wonder why. You'll notice the quote that I put up above. It's by Henry James, an American novelist who spent much of his life writing fiction until the last days of his life. As World War I rolled into his life, he took a drastic turn from writing fiction to trying to help in the war effort. He visited soldiers, hospitals, wrote pamphlets, and above all, he tried to praise those who were doing what he thought was a noble work. The quote I selected, in particular, speaks to the absolute human necessity of not losing yourself in the midst of so much chaos.

Andy, a recent patron of our security compound / hotel, told us to take pictures the first two weeks. He said, "after two weeks" and he paused when he said this, "everything will just start appearing so normal." And today I had a similar conversation with a US embassy worker, Steve, who stated that it was impossible to spend a lot of time here without becoming somewhat, well, crazed. When it starts to appear normal, we decided, that is when we realize that we have become abnormal.

And what HAS become abnormal about me? I wondered this evening as I spoke to Kim. Kim is the new teacher who is soaking in this experience with fervor. She is taking pictures to the point of reckless abandon, even asking for pictures of the soldiers at the security checkpoint - um, probably not the BEST idea, Kim:). As we spoke she told me that she wrote in some detail about the students' experience at the bombed checkpoint, and I realized it hadn't even occurred to me to write about it. She told me (and I'm paraphrasing), "It's like it didn't even faze the students. They just found another route. Like it was normal ... "

And that is when I realized that it struck me as normal as well. It was another bomb. It was another incident. It was an inconvenience for my students to get around. I didn't imagine the death. I didn't think of the implications of a bomb or a shooting. It was just something that happens.

And the thing is, I SHOULD feel. I need to desperately feel this. It is wrong for it to be just some event that happens every day. It is, in a portion of Scott's words (you can guess the rest), "messed up."

Yes it is. And to not feel it, to shut it away, to pretend that it is normal, in my view, is one of the biggest mistakes I could make. I have learned to love so many of the people here. There is so much goodness throughout all of Iraq. By the way, I'm not trying to claim a political stance one way or the other, and I'm not preaching pacifism; I'm just talking about human life. The whole point I'm trying to make is something that goes way beyond politics. If you think I'm making a statement about war or American involvement or anything remotely like that, let me suggest you re-read what I'm saying. There are BAD dudes here, let's make no mistake. And that is why I am so afraid, because you see, there is Wafaa, too.

Wafaa is the teacher trainer who called me yesterday with excitement in her voice she could barely contain. She said that she was so excited to be training, and that the training was working. "Now I know why you were always smiling," she says. We discuss my own enthusiasm for teacher training and why I love it. Then she continues.

"I trained 13 teachers these last two weeks and I'll be teaching more." Then she speaks of the stories that I used in my own training. "I'm using your cake story," she says, "and I tell them about elephants."

Today I opened an email today and saw 10 pictures that Wafaa sent me from Basra with all 13 of her teachers. They stare out at me eager, young, and wide-eyed. And so forgive me for being a little nervous if I hear a report this week that a bomb in the city center of Basra killed more than a dozen people.

You see, I just HAVE to feel.

Back to Life...Back to (Sur)reality

I’m back in Baghdad. I’m back in Baghdad. I’m back in Baghdad. Even as I write it, it is hard to believe. It is strange to have an airplane touch down on a landscape like this and have it feel familiar: the armored vehicles, the blast walls lining the streets, the sound of helicopters, and the feel of the dust in the air. It is like returning to Kansas after being in Oz. It just feels odd.

You see, Istanbul felt like Oz. I arrived there last Thursday and saw an explosion of color. In Baghdad I had forgotten it was spring, but in Istanbul it was everywhere obvious. I saw the blue of the seashore, the yellow tulips, and the green hillsides. The air felt crisp and cool as Marie, Scott, and I boarded the taxi to head to our hotel. The word “freedom” kept creeping up on me as an adjective for the air.

But that’s ridiculous.

So I was in Turkey and our next session with trainees was a week and a half away, and I was ready for the respite away from the confines of the green zone. That was clear. However, what was not clear (at least not to my wife) was that I wasn’t going to spend my R&R in Turkey. I was flying home to Arizona! Maybe that is why I kept smiling as tulips danced past my window on my ride in the taxi. She really had no idea.

I had been mildly confident she hadn't caught on to this fact for some time, and became even more confident just the day before when I learned she was trying to arrange to meet me in Istanbul. She had found a 24-hour passport place and was looking into airplane tickets. I, on the other hand, was staying in Istanbul for only a few hours before boarding Delta Flight 702 to New York City, to board yet another flight two hours later to Phoenix.

Thus realizing that my wife was planning on meeting me in a city thousands of miles away caused me, as you can imagine, some anxiety. This anxiety led me to seek the support of Dixie’s family (MY family) in the form of the following email:

Family! I just found out for sure that I can and will be coming home on April 29th (late this FRIDAY!!!!) for a few days. However, Dixie knows nothing about this and I'd like to keep her in the dark about this because 1. I'm evil (who would have guessed? Really: who?) 2. It's way more fun (this means that I am telling gobs of lies to her about a trip to Turkey that I am taking with the other teachers).

However, now Dixie has been talking about going to Turkey to visit me there. This would be, well, very bad, since I'll be IN ARIZONA. Agh. This is why lies are no good. So I need family intervention. I was hoping I could count on family like you (meaning that believe you are supportive, not devious, but whatever).

I was hoping for a few things. 1. Someone to pick me up from the airport. (Please?) 2. Someone to tell Dixie that flying to Turkey is impractical (I can't watch your kids, one-day passport services are unreliable, flights to Turkey all plunge into the depths of the ocean--you get the gist) 3. A team to help watch the kids on Saturday (or at least Saturday night) so I can take Dixie out on the town. Please let me know who is in and what you'd like to contribute. You can also come up with your own assignments and let me know what you'd like to contribute. I'll be in Arizona for four full days (Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday), so anyone who'd like to help out in any way can feel free. Thanks SO much. Shane

Within hours I had received a flood of emails from willing participants (Shumways are natural and professional performers, so I was in good hands). While I flew to Arizona, I knew that plans were being made and lies told. What can I say about such malevolent behavior but that my family is awesome? For those family members, I’m (right now) giving you a standing ovation here in Baghdad, right in front of a small desk in a small room in a small compound in this small part of the world that I am growing to love. Bravo.

So here is the Cliff Notes version of the performance after I arrived in Phoenix:
Act 1: Adam and Dana picked me up from the airport. Porter and Lana offered their home as the place we would surprise Dixie. Jere and Allison came over to join in the celebration. Porter called her and asked her to come over. She was already asleep (it was almost 11 at night), but the tone in Porter's voice made her think something was seriously wrong (probably not the NICEST thing to do to someone whose husband is in Iraq, but effective nonetheless).
Act 2: She came in to the front room where we were all seated, although I was positioned away from the door so that she could only see me if she walked in and turned around…which is precisely what happened. She walked in, said, “what?” and then saw a mishmash of expressions (some acted concerned, some looked excited). She sat down in a chair exactly opposite me and looked at each person’s face until she reached mine. It looked almost staged it was so perfect.

And then she caught my eyes.

As she explains it, she saw me, recognized that the dude sitting in the couch looked a lot like the guy she calls her husband, but for the life of her, she couldn’t get her brain to accept the fact that it WAS me. I was in Turkey. It is on the other side of the world. Don’t you know?

Finally, as she realized that it was indeed me and not some strange doppleganger Shane, she broke out into smiles, then a shout for joy, and then we hugged.

It was then that I knew that there is no place like home.
Love you, Dixie. Happy Birthday and Happy Mother’s Day.

*And to those grammar teachers who are quick to point out that “freedom” is a noun rather than an adjective, let me kindly remind you that nouns, indeed, often serve as adjectives (apple juice, freedom fighters). Just sayin’.

I'm no sha'er, but I love a good kaseedeh

Today we had the second group of teacher trainers graduate. They were fantastic. I really enjoyed learning about them. Today they were very alive and there were quite a few tears. A U.S. Embassy official spoke to me after that there is something very unusual and powerful going on with our groups. And I agree. I think there is something electric. Many shared poems, expressed thanks, and stated that they would, indeed, teach other teachers about how to motivate and inspire students through language. We spoke of the power of words over guns, and how it is dangerous but necessary to hope. I love my job.

And besides, I learned to do a dance. I'm afraid, however, that all video evidence of Shane dancing to Arabic music was strangely destroyed in a sandstorm. So sorry.

I did, however, get a video of some of the teachers trying to teach me Arabic so that I could write poetry to my wife. Throughout the training, a few have expressed sadness that I have been apart from her and they know that I have stated that while I don't have culture shock when I am teaching, I feel it when I leave the hotel to go back to the tiny compound. There are sandbags instead of toys. Sounds of helicopters and rifle practice instead of, well, normal sounds.

And I have noticed that most of my culture shock comes in not having the small things, like watching my wife tell a story while we put away dishes together, or see her smile when she has made one of her patented "breakthroughs" ("Honey," she'll say, "I just had a breakthrough") I like the particular cadence of her daily thoughts.

Now I'm fairly certain that she doesn't speak Arabic (I haven't precisely asked her, so I guess there's an outside chance), but hey! Comprehension is overrated when we are attempting to speak the language of love. You'll have to forgive the total lack of verbs, pronouns, particles, etc. Call it Arabic free verse, if you will. Here goes my poem:

Mushtaklek. Mushtaklek, habibi.
Beash?
Hwajeh.
Leash?
Tedree?
Ahebek.
Ahebek hwajeh.
Mushtaklek. Mushtaklek, habibi.

The Blame Games

I have pages and pages of notes I don’t know what to do with. I have had one post idea for some time now: a collection of funny moments from the trip. Nothing like a little humor to break up the culture shock blues, you know. I also had a post brewing in my head about the people I’ve met here; people that have truly been part of my whole experience: Scott, Marie, Josh, Husna, Mark, Abdu, Hawhzen, Waafa, Salim, the list is getting overwhelming. While I’m sure most casual readers don’t want me to go into that much detail, I hate leaving out people that, at least in terms of my own emotions and gratitude, deserve mention. It occurs to me that I now get why those who win Oscars or Emmys rattle off such ridiculous lists of names. Names mean real moments; the kind of moments that matter.

I’ve especially grown to appreciate Scott’s ability to turn a fine phrase into fine comedy (my favorite: “There isn’t many places in the world where you are happy to be greeted by a large Ugandan with a gun.”) And Marie’s spirit and ability as a teacher deserves mention, too. She is truly a testament to youthful living regardless of age. She also has that unique ability to tell a story and get so wrapped up in it that listening is almost a bodily experience for the audience (most definitely a bodily experience for her). She, like my sister-in-law Lana, has that gift of sharing a story with such excellent delivery that you are actually excited when she starts to tell it again. I find myself waiting for my favorite parts.

And I have funny little experiences that would make a fine post, too. Like the fact that the checkpoint guards, mostly Peruvian, have gotten so friendly with us (I speak Spanish to them) that they actually approach me for lessons each day. Eduardo moves his automatic rifle out of the way as he reaches for a little notebook of English phrases he is composing. Imagine, if you will, a group of guards listening to me enunciate the difference between “buddy” and “body.” After answering questions, they thank me as I leave, and I can hear them trying out the two words from behind me as I move back into the armored van.

“Bahddy,” they sing in chorus.

“Bahddy,” they sing again, the second word sounding identical to the first. Scott and Marie are smiling. I love that I have this with them. Complicit smiles are so welcome in a place where humor is key to survival.

Survival. That’s the reason that I can’t seem to write the light-hearted post or the overdue homage I’d like to write. This place, this city, this country, constantly reminds me that there is something so much more real going on than our cramped teaching quarters and our short two-week training. So now let me write the post I have to write.

We have been teaching our second group now for 4 days. We were relegated to an upstairs room that I imagine would fit 25 comfortably. We have 37 participants. Just adjacent, a small, seedy-looking side room is the place we put our books and materials. There is a low-hanging low-watt shakalaka lamp (my term) in it that has raised our suspicions as to what kind of activities went on in there. I’ve gone ahead and dubbed it the “opium den.” Enough said.

Overall, in our new teaching quarters it has been hard to create the emotional closeness that we had with the first group. Instead of teaching 3 groups of 15, like we had the previous session, we are forced, because of the single room environment, to teach all 37 at once. For communicative language teachers, that’s like asking an acrobat to perform in a straitjacket.

But we have gotten by. And in fact, I am beginning to feel closer to a lot of the Iraqi teachers. In the classroom, I have learned to appreciate the infectiously pleasant Jamil, who creates and then recites his poetry. “I wish I were a cloud,“ he rhymes, “and water all the world’s land/ Anyone ask me/ and I’ll give him a hand.” Ali Hussan and I discovered that we had a common acquaintance, and we spoke in some detail about the joyous impossibility of it all. Nawaf is the PhD from Nineweh (yes, the actual Nineveh, you Bible scholars) who discusses a point of grammar with Scott and Marie at the end of a particular session. He has obvious gifts and abilities, and I am later told that he attended the finest of all the universities in Iraq.

But the time to really get to know students, is when we leave this cramped room and head to the hotel restaurant for lunch, which we have had daily from 1 to 2 p.m. Great mounds of rice, meat, fish, and chicken await us daily. To arrive at the restaurant, we head down the stairs to the lobby, move past the lobby to the main entrance, and turn left down a hall just before the large glass doors of the formerly 5-star hotel. We see the occasional soldier, be it American, Iraqi, or Triple Canopy.

Paintings are for sale and line the walls down this final hall to the restaurant. Here, just off to the right, is the dining area that has been set up to cater to our group. At lunch, I always try to sit down with someone new. This time, I sit next to the pleasant Tawadud, who is the supervisor of one of my favorite Iraqi teachers from the first workshop, Waafa. Tawadud, like Waafa, is from Basra, and she explains to me in some detail how she tries to train and teach her students. I like her. I like her even more as I see her counsel a younger teacher about how to interact with administration. She seems wise to me.

Another teacher, a Kurdish physics teacher named Kosrat, approaches our table and asks if she can sit down in an empty chair. We say yes, of course, and she begins to unravel a particular question to me. Meanwhile, I notice that Nawaf had slipped out of the dining area and is just now walking back into the room. Not paying too much attention, I begin answering Kosrat’s question, and in the middle of this discussion, I am tapped on from behind. I don’t know how to explain it, but the tap feels urgent. I stop my discussion and turn. It is Nawaf. He leans low behind my chair and I turn to see Marie and Scott nearby; they have also been tapped and are waiting to listen to him. It appears that he has summoned us three together to tell us something.

“I don’t want to say anything bad about you,” he says, with a feeling that has a force I still don’t understand, “but if you go back to the United States…” he trails off. He composes himself and then continues, in what I can best describe as quick huffs.

He states, “I want you to tell that Bush he is a war criminal.” This last sentence he says with his head down, nearly in tears.

I am surprised by all of this, of course, and am searching for the context that would make this kind of an outburst reasonable. I see now that he is visibly shaking, and that two of the Iraqi teachers are holding him on either side. He gets out a few more words, words that express how he loves us and doesn’t blame us. And then he tells us the reason for his unexpected request and condemnation.

“I just got off the phone,” he says almost flatly. “My brother is dead.”

I’m unprepared to hear this news. He is unprepared to share it. He can no longer speak and walks swiftly away with a trail of people following. Later I hear that he cannot be consoled and has left the hotel. I am left in the wake of his absence trying to figure out what to say and what to do. Other students help me out by forming small groups. A group clusters around me and they begin the process of grieving for him, even though he is not around to receive the sympathy. They speak of the sadness of it, they talk of the inevitability of such things, and they speak reassuringly of their feelings for me, Scott, and Marie.

On the way home I am still in a somber mood. We share the news with our U.S.-loving escort. He seems saddened by it as he reflects for a moment, but then quickly composes his thoughts and tries to explain his view on this terrible matter. I think, as our escort, he wants to give us the larger picture as he sees it, perhaps as a way of putting emotional boundaries around it. He explains that the area Nawaf lives in, Mosul, is filled with radicals, Al Qaeda and the like, that will kill almost arbitrarily. There are those in power, he explains, who will regularly round up people, especially those who are educated. Just yesterday, Mosul was involved in just such a round up. Nawaf’s brother, he believes, was likely among those taken.

Our escort continues his view by stating that he disagrees that Bush is a war criminal, and speaks of how the factions and internal struggle are, rather, to be blamed.

“Bush gave us the freedom. Would Iraq be able to have freedom without him? No,” he states with a swing of authoritative intonation.

To date, I’m relatively uninterested in a political discussion as to who is right or wrong in this whole mess. I guess, for clarity’s sake, I should mention that I don’t blame Nawaf for his feelings, even if we are to discover he is facing the wrong target for his anger. For whether or not the U.S.’s entry into Iraq was justifiable, a hornet's nest has been kicked, and people are suffering because of it.

This time, people I know.

Graduation Day

Two weeks is up. Just like that, our first of four workshops is over. And with this group, our graduation is a joyful one. The students danced. Oh, did they dance. Before our ceremony had even begun, we all gathered together just outside our conference room. Here, our students began to whoop and holler, bouncing up and down to some sort of song or chant. As I later surmised, it is Iraqi tradition to celebrate teachers by singing and dancing together in a circle. They pointed their video cameras and camera phones at each other as they did this. I believe the song's translation might be something like, "Marie, she is our teacher. She has taught us. Scott. Scott is our teacher. He has taught us. Shane. Shane is our teacher. He has taught us. Mark..." We were to be placed in the center as the singing occurred. It was both exciting and unnerving.

Then we handed out certificates and gave and received gifts. Several students had prepared small speeches, and we were given an impromptu song and a poem. One student, one of my favorites, even imitated us. And boy, was he spot on. He mocks my propensity to get choked up when I read or tell certain stories. You can see all four of us teachers get mocked here (as well as Mark getting caught up in a mini-circle dance of his own).

The energy was palpable. It was a perfect ending.

At the end of it all I sang a song that is nothing special musically. In the video, you can barely hear the guitar, but I think it came off better in the room. It is hopelessly insular, with tons of inside jokes. For example, I make a joke about eating elephants, which referred to a class lesson wherein I pose the riddle, "How do you eat an elephant?"

The point of that particular lesson was to encourage teachers to attempt the impossible. (Answer to the riddle, "How do you eat an elephant"? Well, silly, one bite at a time.) Since some of these teachers face daunting--I repeat, daunting--challenges, we spoke in some detail about how to solve some of the most unsolvable riddles. For example, imagine 60 students and 40 chairs. Or imagine a thatched roof and no flooring. As a result of my belief that they are meant to solve the impossible situations placed in front of them, some of the students began to refer to themselves as "elephant eaters."

Back to the song. I added teaching moments from the other teachers, such as Marie's use of a favorite phrase, Scott's punctuation lesson, and Mark's enthusiasm during reading theater. And I also added phrases that had linguistic meaning, such as the phrase "never be alone" (a networking principle we taught) and the phrase "learn a little, use a lot," which referred to the principle of practice. I even threw in Martin Luther King Jr's line about brothers and sisters (see the previous post).

So the song will most likely be lost on most people, but I'm putting it in here anyway. It is set to the tune "Rainbow Connection," and I'm pasting the text and video below. Oh, and I better mention that the phrase, "Teachers 4 Ever" is a title that the teachers gave themselves as part of a declaration they all signed, so I play with that phrase in the song as well. Part of the graduation involved them signing this declaration. It was a beautiful moment.

Anyway, check out the video just below the text.

Teachers 4 Ever"

Why are there so many trainers in front of me?
Never seen such a thing in my life.
They’ve come from all over, hoping for training
I’ve left all three kids and my wife.
But I’ve come with two experts
named Scott and Marie;
we’ve done all we can to prepare.
We know that we’re ready,
it’s time now to teach them,
the teachers, the trainers, and me.

Have you been half asleep?
Marie will help wake you,
keep on learning
she says with her eyes.
Scott will make punctuate
Sound like “pronunciation,”
and says planning lessons is wise.
Shane is a bit confused, he thinks that the teachers
are actors who eat elephants.
Osama helped behind the scenes,
and Josh came, but then he went;
Husna had the grace of a queen.
And then there is Mark
who reads with his whole body;
he tells us we shall overcome.
And now I see brothers,
and now I see sisters;
The teachers, the trainers, and me

A drop becomes two, then three,
suddenly it’s an ocean;
I know that you won’t be alone.
You’ll have us for always, we’re the teachers 4 ever,
we’ll be with you even when you go home.
Can you stand right now and declare it together
That we can bring peace to this world?
learned a little, we’ll use a lot
We’re in this 4 ever,
The teachers, the trainers, and me.

Overcoming the Impossible

note: Bill's name has been changed to protect the innocent, meaning me.

This morning we left the Edinburgh International at 8 am, our usual time, to head for the Al Rasheed Hotel. Bill, an Englishman with outrageous thigh arms (my thighs = his arms), took us. Bill’s experience in security has led him from one dangerous country to another. He seems to relish in it. Two stories illustrate my point: First, one evening he reminisced over our campfire about the good times in a small ancient city in Afghanistan. What made it so good? Well, in his words, this rural village is “fantastic” because people lived in hovels carved out from a mountain. He spoke about how the people were hard and gritty, waking up at 5 am to shovel snow from their entrances. As he reminisced about the stark barrenness of the place, I couldn’t help but wonder how many would truly share his sentiment. I kept imagining an SNL sketch with old men reminiscing about horrible pasts: “Ahh, the good ol days...we ate dirt for breakfast and we liked it.”

And yesterday, I took a picture of Josh getting his bulletproof vest put on. Josh was a fantastic escort who had helped arrange our stay here. While I took my picture, Bill put his hand out in front of the camera and said, “No pictures. I’m still a wanted man in Nigeria.” I laughed nervously. Obviously kidding, right?

Well, let’s move on.

So off to the Al Rasheed we go. In the armored van we go through a total of five checkpoints in about three quarters of a mile. Tedious. Dreadfully tedious. But with Bill, we don’t have to exit the van and get frisked like we ordinarily do. He flashes the checkpoint guards a badge and they nod knowingly. Apparently, this badge is some sort of golden ticket that allows a lot more movement within the international zone. We like going with Bill. It’s like having your own personal Arnold Schwarzenegger.

T-walls (big giant slabs of concrete) about 10 feet high accompany us on both sides of the street through most of this trip. Here’s a rundown: From the main thoroughfare, we turn left at the Four Soldier’s Monument. The 14th of July Bridge is immediately behind us. We then proceed through the aforementioned checkpoint and toward the Al Rasheed, passing the Crossing Swords Monument and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier on the left. Ministry buildings are to the right. Just at the end of the green zone sits the Al Rasheed, which has its own security checkpoints. Each passenger raises his or her passport to the guards assigned to peer through the window. The guards themselves are part of a larger security team, Triple Canopy, and they consist of Chilean, Peruvian, and Ugandan mercenaries. They seemed austere at first, but they are beginning to recognize us. This time, one manages a smile of recognition.

So now we’re in the hotel and after a time of preparation and our daily warm up, I’m ready to teach. Today I am teaching about large classrooms. I know it is a point of complaint for our teachers, who often teach upwards of 60 students. So I decide to use the phrase, “how do you eat an elephant?” Then I have students guess to what I am referring. It works well--Iraqis are adept at metaphor--and they tell me all kinds of pertinent answers.

“You eat an elephant just like anything else: with your mouth,” says one.

“You divide it into pieces,” says another.

“It is like a language classroom, it is a big problem, but you simply must find a way.” My point exactly.

We discuss how we may be given impossible tasks, but they are ours to solve. We then proceed to look at 8 lesser “impossible” situations that stem from having a large class, and I have them look for solutions. They give fantastic answers, and I like using their knowledge so that we have a well-rounded perspective. I provide my own answers and end with a challenge to continue finding ways to make the impossible situations more bearable. They respond with ridiculous amounts of enthusiasm. They are quite easy to teach. They seem starved for it. After class, students approach me to give final thoughts or ask questions. Today three students wish to speak to me. Two students give me their final thoughts, and the last, a teacher from Kurdistan, asks if I would edit a newspaper piece he is doing about his whole experience in Baghdad. I tell him I’d be honored.

And today, especially, I’m given rather royal treatment. Several students have given me gifts: CD’s, keychains, and so forth. But today a student has given me a clock that has my face on it. I find it comical and touching. The minute hand spins around my smile and I’m reminded of the Cheshire cat.

At lunchtime, an older student named Salim (who bears a resemblance to Gandhi), has asked for me to review some tips for his daughter. She is taking the TOEFL test, and I have promised to tell him what she might expect on it.

After a brief discussion about the test, we begin to discuss Prime Minister Iyad Allawi’s visit to the Al Rasheed today. Security is way up, and throughout the hotel are dozens of Iraqi soldiers in green camoflauge with red berets. They stand in colorful contrast to the drab beige of the Triple Canopy guards.

Today, I am told, is Martyr’s Day, which probably explains Allawi’s visit to the famous hotel. This is the day that Iraqis mourn because of the murder of a beloved thinker and pacifist. They begin to describe the similarities between this pacifist and Martin Luther King, Jr. They talk of the horror of his death, and that of others, all at the hands of Saddam. In one particularly graphic detail, they describe how his sister is burned in acid; her hair the only thing found of her.

They speak with anger about Saddam, and they call him crazed, deluded by his own power.
“This is a man that made one palace to eat breakfast, another for lunch, and another for dinner.” Their lifted eyebrows make clear that I don’t misinterpret their sincerity. They speak of his belief that he was the only thing good for Iraq (“for Saddam, even the air we breathe was Saddam”), but gave money to other countries so that his world popularity would increase. They speak of his similarity to Hitler, and one well-read teacher compares him to the pig in George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

I am stunned by their openness, and touched by their willingness to commemorate a man who represented peace.

So I am doubly moved when, just hours later, my director conducts a reading of Martin Luther King, Jr. He invites the Iraqi teachers to sing to the tune that they hear in a short video clip.

“We shall overcome
We shall overcome
We shall overcome some day
Deep in my heart, I do believe
That we shall overcome some day."

Yes, it is a little comical to imagine a group of Iraqi’s halfway around the world singing black spirituals. I get that. Boy, do I get that. But their voices sound so plaintive. I think of how much they have suffered, and how impossible a task it must appear to rebuild an entire country.
As they sing the final line (it seems to hang in the air), I think of how appropriate Martin Luther King, Jr.’s words might be when applied to this group.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith…the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

It is now late at night, I’m staring at my computer screen, and I can still hear their voices singing.

A Study in Contrasts

My students are wonderful. They are a colorful cast of personalities, ranging from young Iraqi teachers (they dress like casino owners with smooth slacks and colorful shirts buttoned down to the chest) to the older women (who dress in shawls of bright colors and have twinkling eyes). One such woman asked for me to be in a picture with her. I knew that some arabic women do not wish to be photographed, but I figured since she had asked me, it would be alright. As the picture was being taken she said aloud, “If my husband sees this picture of me with you, he’ll come kill you.” My expression turned sour, the camera flashed, and she faced me and laughed. Of course, she explained, her husband would do nothing of the sort. Thus concludes my first practical joke in Iraq. I admit my heart dropped.

And there are other colorful characters. Students from the northern country who are not Arabic, but Kurdish. One received a Fulbright scholarship and we spoke in some detail about Faulkner and modern poetry. Another follows me somewhat like a puppy, and he seems so eager to learn. I liked him immediately.

And there are older teachers of Arabic descent that introduce me to their names and full titles, making it clear that they have impressive posts. One woman named Fatin is a supervisor for a hundred schools. She sat down with me at lunch and told me all the impossibilities facing English teachers. She kept asking me, “What do I do? What do I do?” She wasn’t satisfied until I told her that her situation was indeed the most impossible of situations. It seemed to me that she needed validation more than advice. When I finally commiserated with her she smiled, satisfied.

Many of the teachers want to share the meanings of their names with me.

“It means 'new moon.'”

“It means ‘secrets.'”

“It means ‘harvest.’”

I smile and express surprise each time.

One such teacher came up to me and shook my hand, and refused to let it go until he had finished speaking with me. I had just shown pictures of my family in a recent activity lauding the principles of “contextualizing language” and he appeared touched. He wanted me to know how thankful he was that I was here. I have learned quickly that an Iraqi man in earnest speaks to me from about 6 inches away. Even with my Venezuelan background, I find it a touch too close.

And the list goes on. There are 45 teachers in total, and each with wonderful personalities and remarkable storylines. Mark mentioned to me that he feels like we are on an episode of Lost, because we have a huge cast of characters with such interesting back stories. I would love to learn each one.

The students have responded very warmly to my instruction. I have been very happy to see how involved and ready they are to participate.

But this very happy, ideal moment (yes, let’s all sing Kumbaya together!) with teachers learning and enjoying learning is tinged with the fact that on this very same day, Easter Sunday, there were a reported 11 different bombings. One came close enough to the hotel for us to hear. I paused in the middle of my second class as I heard the noise. Later I learned that a woman had strapped herself to a bomb. Embassies had been targeted, but gratefully, even though this particular bomb was close, the green zone remained unharmed. Still, our debriefing back in the hotel reminded me of how dangerous and sad these Iraqi teachers’ lives are. The point was triply made when I learned that two teachers the next day would fail to return. Cousins had been killed in the heated violence of the day before.

In total, at least 35 have been killed, and over 200 injured. It was a bittersweet day.

The next day of teaching was more of the same. I was able to teach about music, drama, and games in the ESL classroom. I sang songs, juggled oranges, and laughed with students. We discussed how ESL teachers might seem crazed because of our interactive natures. We discussed how part of our job description includes that of “actor.”

Logistically, I teach three 90-minute classes, with two classes before lunch and one immediately after. The buffet at the Al Rasheed Hotel is impressive.

And in stark contrast to our conference room, is a room that used to house all kinds of disreputable presidential parties. Saddam Hussein’s cabaret, “One Thousand and One Nights,” is just down the hall from us, and reminds me of how truly despicable that man was. I don’t like to imagine what went on in that room.

And just so that it is terribly clear how contrasts play a major part in my stay in Iraq, last evening we were invited to the embassy and walked into a facility that, on the outside, has all of the markings of the international zone: t-walls, security teams, armored vehicles, camouflage. But once inside the building I felt like I could have been in the United States. The bathroom walls are tiled to the ceiling, the air filtration whirs comfortably, removing any sense of the dust I feel outside. The mess hall was filled with American chatter. Pictures of our current presidency marked the walls.

Bev Hall, our escort, showed us her office, a cubicle that reminded me of my Arizona Office Technology days. The embassy itself spans many buildings and is larger than the Vatican. You can see the amount of spending that went into the Iraq War just by looking around the complex. It impresses. The helicopters buzzing overhead do the same for me.

As we walked back to the armored van that would take us home, the sound of another bomb went off. Because we were outside, this one felt remarkably clear. We all stopped talking, and I fell into a more somber mood. I noticed that Bev seemed relatively unphased, and she joked that the sound came from her stomach. I, on the other hand, so new to this kind of experience, was very much phased indeed.

How in the world can anyone live in such a remarkable land of contrasts? I have smiled enough so that my face hurts. But in the next moment I have needed to sit down; the shattered sound of a bomb still ringing in my ears.

Three Things I Notice

I'm sure there are several of you that want an update on Iraq. Well, here I am. In Iraq. Really. It is a little surreal. It feels almost as weird as saying I'm in Wonderland or Atlantis.

Physically, Iraq is dust, cement, and date palms. Pretty much. But the people we have met are self-assured, and this has calmed me a great deal. We laughed over dinner tonight at the place we are staying at, the Edinburgh International, which for some reason I had thought was a hotel. UPDATE: DO NOT BE CONFUSED BY ITS FANCY TITLE. THE EDINBURGH INTERNATIONAL IS NOT, IN FACT, A HOTEL. It's more a halfway house with ambitions: shared bathrooms, mismatched furniture, clunky radiators, and wall plugs that spark when we put in our electronics. But it all works together to feel sorta homey, in a "war-torn" sort of way. And there is a backyard lawn (FANCY TITLE: GARDEN AREA) where people, I've been told, hang out at a campfire and tell stories.

Anyway, we sat down at dinner tonight and had a great time. I really enjoyed chatting with the teachers from Phoenix,: Marie, Scott, and Mark as well as our U.S. escorts, Husna and Josh. Husna and I agreed that cilantro was king of all herbs, and she, in fact, joined a Facebook group devoted to lauding its praises. Josh mentioned he was interested, despite his age, to watch one of the movies we intend on showing to the teacher trainers, until he learned that High School Musical, was in fact, not Hamlet 2. Mark and I found that we both had intense interest in the final season of Lost, and we spent some time convincing the others of its cerebral nature and why it wasn't just a show about impossible cliff hangers (and besides, Richard being a 19th-century Spanish slave is so frickin cool). Dinner was so fun. It ended just a few minutes ago, and we separated with a plan to meet tomorrow morning. So I'm feeling very relaxed and even happy. There have been no incidents in this area for years and years, and you can tell by the way the security team is alert but relaxed, that we are going to be okay.

But let me backtrack a little. Iraq is mostly dust, cement, and date palms. Yes. That's what I was talking about. And that was the order of how I noticed things when we began driving from the airport and into the armored vehicle (yes, I just casually threw in the phrase armored vehicle because it sounds so, well, cool).

And it was in the armored vehicle (still cool) that I learned how some guys will forever be more manly than I am. Such a man was a Scot named Josh, the security leader who met us at the airport and proceeded to explain to us how not to get blown up. He seemed extremely credible to me, as he had lived in Baghdad off and on now for six years, and was indeed, not blown up. In fact, he had tats, and of course, a cool Scottish accent, and I think he wore khaki (or at least would look good in it). So, yeah. Josh was awesome. His counterpart, Bill, accompanied the other van, and was the size of a house.

I was ushered to put on a bulletproof vest and given a short "briefing." His accent was deliciously rich, and I enjoyed how strongly he trilled his "r" in words like "alarm" and "armored."He also used a number of acronyms I wasn't used to. IED. ECM. IZ. FOB. BIAP. This world, so new to me, was a world Josh seemed completely at ease in. His abbreviations and acronyms for everything made it hard for me to follow him, and I tried to mentally note all this new information.

EI: our hotel

IED: improvised explosive device

ECM: electronic countermeasures

IZ: international zone (used to be called the green zone)

FOB: forward operating base

BIAP: Baghdad International Airport

Josh also informed us that the Americans had renamed many of the streets, and I later learned on a map in the EI control room some unusual street names such as Screaming Lady and Warhawk. The street that took us from BIAP to IZ itself was named the Irish. Within the IZ the U.S. military had put camps (FOBS) throughout the region such as Camp Freedom and Prosperity. There were thousands of troops here. And the control room could contact the troops with the touch of a button.

I found that I still had my mind filled with the brightness of Istanbul's Istiklal street, which we visited the night before. It was a deliciously alive city, with the bright lights and colors of a major metropolis. And the movement! It seemed like the street itself, a patchwork of cobblestone, moved under us. Sitting in the armored van, I closed my eyes and could still taste the honey from the storefront bakhlava and smell the roast chestnuts.

But here the streets seemed desolate, and there was a haze of dust that seemed to hang over the streets no matter where we went. Cement dividers, which I think Josh called t-blocks, were stacked alongside each side of the street, giving our passage to the international zone a military, imperial feel. Sometimes the cement walls were 15 to 20 feet high. It must have been a massive undertaking to construct walls in this fashion. They were placed around streets, around buildings (the U.S. Embassy's walls were particularly tall), and even around what I thought looked like homes, but I later understood many of these are compounds. Sandbags lined a number of walls.

And our hotel, in reality, is one of these compounds. It does indeed feel and look more like a very large home, not totally dissimilar to my parents first mission home in Mexico City. There are two floors, at least 11 bedrooms, and a few scattered bathrooms. That isn't to say there aren't good amenities. They have had a surprisingly good buffet, secured and reliable wi-fi, and satellite TV (want to watch Friends with arabic subtitles?)

It seems to me that Baghdad, while surrounded by the rubble, cement, and dust of years of hellish fighting, shows signs of progress. Women and men walked freely in the streets. Cellphones were prevalent. I hear Arabic music being played, and it is a sort of soothing sound. Dust. Yes. Cement. Yes.

But you should see the date palms. They are beautiful.

Monday's training meeting

This is what I was asked to study for my Monday meeting (just before my departure the next day).

Stress management, indeed.

Section 8 - Personal Security Standard Operating Procedures
Section 10 - Vehicles Operations
Section 11 - Landmines, etc
Section 12 - Bombs etc
Section 13 - Gunfire and Ambush
Section 17 - Crisis Response
Section 19 - Stress Management

Maybe I won't go for any morning jogs.

Why I'm Going to Iraq: Don't Blame Me!

Iraq.

Two months.

Um, not a chance. Pass the doughnuts, please.

That's what I thought when I first heard the idea.

I was in a teacher meeting in August at Arizona State University when the director first introduced the possibility of sending a team of teacher trainers to bring English to the Iraqis. It sounded bold, almost ridiculous. Take English to a hostile nation that has been left in ruins. I could just imagine the angry stares I would get. Yeah, right, sign me up.

But as I listened to the director, the idea did have a simplicity that appealed to me. Since Iraqi education is down in the dumps (bombs will do that), a fine education for the best and brightest Iraqis will most likely take place outside of the country. And going outside the Middle Eastern context means that many potential Iraqi scholars will have to speak English. Our job, the director explained (should we choose to accept it) would be to train 200 Iraqi teacher trainers. They, in turn, would teach their teachers. And they, in turn, would teach their students. Our impact could and would be felt throughout the entire nation. The hope was to eventually send thousands of Iraqi students to receive educations in universities throughout the world.

Hmmm, I thought. Fascinating. Interesting. Mostly crazy.

And then a funny thing happened while passing the doughnuts. A different thought creeped into my brain completely uninvited. The thought was this:

You need to go.

If you are like me, you know that there is this funny thing with crazy thoughts that come from nowhere, and the funny thing is this: If you aren't careful, crazy thoughts have a way of sounding reasonable.

So, of course, the best thing to do is to shoot down a crazy thought with logic (crazy thoughts HATE logic). I made a list:

too dangerous
too long away from family
too weird
too hard on Dixie (my wife)
too hard on the kids
too hard on me
strange food
political opposition
mortar falling on the hotel roof would probably disrupt classroom chats...

But the thought persisted over the next few months. It pointed out how I was uniquely prepared to do teacher training because of my past experience, experience that couldn't have been by chance. It pointed out how I had just had unforgettable experiences in teacher training. It pointed out that all my life I had wanted to make a difference. It pointed out that I was once given a charge to influence people for good throughout the world. It pointed out how seriously I took that charge. And then the director sent me letters from the Iraqi teacher trainers and the crazy thought led me to notice how wonderful the teacher trainers seemed. And then, to be completely unfair, I was also sent this picture of an Iraqi student.


And my heart swelled. And now I just know. I know I'm supposed to go. I know that my life has, in a way, led up to this. I've always been a teacher, and I've always wanted to use my skills to DO something.

Wish me luck. And blame crazy thoughts.

Teaching is a Team Sport

A fellow teacher named Alice told me something that has helped me out over the years. I was a young teacher at the time and was trying to work hard at a school to distinguish myself from other faculty members. She said, "Shane, teaching is a team sport. Don't try to reinvent the wheel."

Her remark took me off guard. She had noticed how diligently I had been preparing lesson plans, how much I poured myself into my lessons, and she noticed that I was burning out. She was an older, veteran teacher, and she informed me that it was important not only to pace myself, but to not do tasks unnecessarily. She said that the more I networked, the better I could accomplish difficult tasks. "Other teachers can be brilliant, too, Shane," she informed, "so find out what they are doing and see how they can help you."

I was a little stung that she thought I was doing things incorrectly (and that she noticed I thought I was brilliant), but her words hit home. I was really working hard by myself, trying to set myself apart, and I failed to see myself as part of a larger team. I was going solo, and I wasn't going anywhere as quickly as I would have liked (in fact, I had a chip on my shoulder because I felt I was working so hard compared to everyone else that would often sit around and chat).

So I decided to change. I involved myself by speaking to other teachers. I asked questions, showed some of my plans, and gathered information. Alice later would explain that all teachers have a toolbox in which they have collected a number of tools. It was our job as teachers to collect as many useful tools as we could rather than create our own tools. Her words still ring true to me today.

So I shifted to this new approach, and as you can guess, something amazing happened. I found that these fellow teachers of mine had all kinds of tools: resources and ideas and activities that would influence mine. I found that they had ideas that I could use almost every day, and often their ideas were better than mine. In a short time, I became so much more equipped and informed and able to perform in the classroom. I had a toolbox that would have taken me years to create. All because I asked teachers what they were doing.

And ultimately, while I was happy to have improved myself as a teacher, I was also saddened to discover how much I had shortchanged myself by not making myself a part of a group. I had learned that I wasn't just a teacher caring about students on my own, I was a member of a team. And when we worked together, we could accomplish so much more than when we were apart. It was exhilerating and I loved getting ideas. And I made some friends. It was much more fun to be a teacher this way.

And now, get THIS....now I have all of these great ideas that don't come from me at all. I've said it before and I'll say it again. My best ideas are not my own. So if you ever hear me say something or do something you like, make sure you don't just thank me.

Thank Alice.

Balance can be such an impossible task. "Just take time for everything!" says someone who you are sure doesn't understand the intricacies of your life. "Slow down and smell the roses." Oh, is THAT what is wrong with me? I haven't smelled the roses? But you have a major project to get done and you are arguing with the copier to get it printed out and double sided in 42 packets, you have 3 emails to write to students for an assignment from last Monday, you have to assess new students in a placement test called the "John's test" for some reason, and you just forgot...you have a gift waiting to be picked up for Valentine's Day this weekend. So when someone calls you up and invites you to the Sun's basketball game tonight and you just can't, just CAN'T say yes, even though you really want to, then you think, "Man, my life is out of balance" (please replace "you" with "Shane" for added effect).

All of this is just theoretical, of course.

So balance is hard. But there are some areas where I think balance is the key to success. Here's a saying I like:

"It is achievement, not work, that makes people happy."

This may sound rather obvious, but I think many of us in our own lives don't get this concept. Achievement is what fuels people, not work. Industry alone, work alone, just isn't enough. I have known countless friends who work themselves to the bone and feel nothing but despair and loneliness. I know others who work hard and feel content and happy. How come? Well, I think we can start with the idea that what truly makes all the work worth it is if we actually value the work. Is it something we actually believe in? Does what you do make you feel like you are achieving in life, moving forward and progressing? Well, why the heck not?

And here is a related tangent. I like to think of setting one goal in my life that has nothing to do with teaching. Some sort of achievement that only me, myself, and I value. Maybe it is to join a choir, plant a garden, learn another language, or plan a trip with my family. It doesn't matter as long as I think it matters. But generally it is something concrete and finite. It is something I truly, truly want. And then, well, I work for it. I work for it because I know it is what I want. And when I accomplish it, it makes me feel warm and toasty all over (I know you know what I am talking about). And the funny thing is, it helps me be a better teacher. When it all comes down to it, you can't teach a lie. You can only teach who you truly are. And when you have balance, true balance, you are at peace with what you are doing and how you are going about doing it. You might be taxed, you might be really burdened, but it is the good kind of burden, the burden that you yourself believe in. And that is a very good thing to come into the classroom with (not to mention outside of the classroom).

I see so many teachers work instead of achieve. I do it myself, all the time. But there are those rare times when I know that what I am doing has value to me, and then there is joy in the work. It makes it tolerable to me. I know I'm not just in some kind of mindless pursuit for money or to keep my head above water.

Because what I do matters. And that gives me the courage to stay balanced.