4.5 months in Los Angeles
2.5 months in Seattle
3.5 months in Taiwan
1 week in Cambodia
Brief interludes in: Bellingham, Orcas Island, Portland, Houston, Anchorage, San Francisco, and Santa Barbara,
The remainder: Florence, Oregon.
Highlights: Graduating; Cousin's wedding; Touring a mobile sex dungeon; Getting flown to Houston for an interview; Driving up Highway 101 with Mom; Angkor Wat; Moving to Taiwan; watching both Jones boys pummel North Bend in their first tackle football game; And watching my brother take first in the regional Pitch Hit Run Contest at Safeco Field in Seattle.
The dungeon tour was for a Seattle Times story. I got calls from radio shows all over the country. A producer from a national TV morning show called me about it (though I can't remember which one). Fox News did a short story on it. It was exciting. But, the newspaper business is dying. And after some halfway-serious introspection, I'm less inclined to think the fish-wrap industry is the right road for me anyway. My plus-sized swing club article may be my lifetime contribution to the fourth estate. Cheers to that.
I didn't get the job in Houston. It would've been a two-year rotation through Hearst newspapers, which are mostly on the East Coast and in the Midwest. In retrospect, I'm relieved I'm not in Beaumont or Huron right now, inevitably working some holiday night/cops shift. A good friend also interviewed for the Hearst job. He realized he didn't want the gig while still in Houston, so he ordered room service steak and eggs on Hearst's tab. I wish I had that kind of foresight.
I'm excited to see how 2009 shapes up. My only definite post-Taiwan plans are to haul my worldly possessions back down Highway 101 to Los Angeles. Once there, I will test the limits of my aunt and uncle's hospitality. They live in Sherman Oaks, or, as my friends who live in WeHo say, voices dripping with disdain, The Valley. Hopefully I will quickly find gainful employment and permanent accommodations. Fingers crossed.
In short, I'm not sure just where I'll be or what I'll be doing 12 months from now. That's nerve-wracking. But it's exciting too. The majority of my life will probably be much more predictable. For now, I'm savoring the unknown.
Now for resolutions! James taught me it's best to include at least one really easy resolution. That way you don't feel so bad when the others don't pan out. I will leave you to divine which of the following was my easy resolution for 2009:
1. Remember names. I hate it when people say, "Oh, I'm terrible with names." Because all it means is "Oh, I can't be bothered with names." And yet, I forgot more names of people I met this year than I care to remember. Next year, I'm going to do better.
2. Become conversational in Chinese. I'm going to buy some Chinese self-help on iTunes. I'm going to be more aggressive about speaking up when I'm out and about. I'm going to pester my bosses and co-workers. I'm going to maximize all those Saturday lunches with James' grandma. By the time I leave this country I will be able to say something beyond, "No I do not need a bag with that!"
3. Carry a notebook with me. Write three things down every day that would be interesting to somebody besides myself.
4. Never again watch Zombie Strippers or any other film wherein Jenna Jameson shoots billiard balls out of her hoohah.
That's it. Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Update
Today's Weather: Showers. High 64, F. Low 57, F.
What Alan Wore: One sweatshirt, two sweaters and a turtleneck.
What Alan Wore: One sweatshirt, two sweaters and a turtleneck.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tough Love
My kiddies have become very lax in the hand washing department. They're old enough and they've been told enough.
But they've made a game out of stepping out of the bathroom, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for me to bark, "Did you wash your hands? With soap?" Then they grin mischievously and dart back in to lather up.
This game was old a month ago. Monday I put my foot down.
"If I have to tell you to wash your hands after you go pee pee, I will take FIVE of your tokens."
Students get tokens for being good. Once they collect a couple hundred they can turn them in for one of the cheapo toys we keep displayed like the Holy Grail on a high shelf.
On break time, sure enough, Owen came out of the bathroom hands unwashed.
"Owen go wash your hands. I'm taking 5 of your tokens."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" Owen leaped off the ground and latched onto my thigh with the strength and rage of a rabid woodland creature - totally unaware that he weighs 100 pounds less than me and has not a prayer of physically commanding me to return his tokens.
I pried all four appendages from my leg, held him by the arms and brought my face to eye-level with his.
"Do not grab me. That is not okay. You still need to go wash your hands."
With that, Owen prostrated himself on the floor and thrust all his energy into wailing into the floorboards. I wondered if they could hear him in the coffee shop downstairs.
This is the same kid who used to stomp and scream if he wasn't first in line to walk to the adjacent classroom. This isn't a bad day. This is a behavior problem.
I scooped him below the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom.
"You still have to wash your hands ... with soap!"
Owen stood facing the mirror, continuing to bawl. Every now and then he'd look over to see if his grief was working its magical powers on me.
These theatrics must be effective for Owen at home. But not in my house.
"Wash. Your. Hands."
I wasn't a tantrum thrower. Neither of my brothers were tantrum throwers. We aren't blood related, so it can't be attributed to some tantrum-resistant gene. It must've been good parenting.
My mom told me I threw one truly fabulous fit when I was two. She said it was like something out of a cartoon strip: kicking feet, pounding fists, belly to the ground, ear-splitting shrieks.
A simpleblurb from Good Parenting jedi mind trick cured me then and for forever:
"Leslie, I know you're upset. It's okay to be upset," she said.
Then Mom walked away and continued to sew shoulder pads into her blazers or watch jazzercise videos - or whatever it was moms usually did when their kids weren't hysterical in the late 1980s.
What?! I must've been thinking: All I'm getting out of this is patient acknowledgement of my feelings? Forget it. This is too much effort.
That was it. No more fits.
My students are not all inclined to bawling outbursts, but they all show greater proclivity to whining than I'd like, or that I'm liable to stand for very long.
"TEEEEEEEEEEEEE-Chuh, he hit me!"
Occasionally, they really thunk each other. But most often "Teacher, he hit me" should be interpreted as "Teacher, he accidentally bumped me, I'm in a foul mood, and I want someone get in trouble. Help me out?"
"I don't care." I tell them. I don't say it in an even, pleasant tone, like the experts would probably recommend. I jerk my head side to side and glare.
I say it like a challenge, like I'm the Dirty Harry of pre-school teachers, like one false step, another hint of a whine - even a peep - and the whole classroom could come crashing down.
What are you going to do now that you know I couldn't give two turds that your feelings are hurt? Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
I'm not the epitome of child care professionalism. But this tactic, without fail, stanches the whining and momentarily confuses the whiner. Mission accomplished!
But they've made a game out of stepping out of the bathroom, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for me to bark, "Did you wash your hands? With soap?" Then they grin mischievously and dart back in to lather up.
This game was old a month ago. Monday I put my foot down.
"If I have to tell you to wash your hands after you go pee pee, I will take FIVE of your tokens."
Students get tokens for being good. Once they collect a couple hundred they can turn them in for one of the cheapo toys we keep displayed like the Holy Grail on a high shelf.
On break time, sure enough, Owen came out of the bathroom hands unwashed.
"Owen go wash your hands. I'm taking 5 of your tokens."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" Owen leaped off the ground and latched onto my thigh with the strength and rage of a rabid woodland creature - totally unaware that he weighs 100 pounds less than me and has not a prayer of physically commanding me to return his tokens.
I pried all four appendages from my leg, held him by the arms and brought my face to eye-level with his.
"Do not grab me. That is not okay. You still need to go wash your hands."
With that, Owen prostrated himself on the floor and thrust all his energy into wailing into the floorboards. I wondered if they could hear him in the coffee shop downstairs.
This is the same kid who used to stomp and scream if he wasn't first in line to walk to the adjacent classroom. This isn't a bad day. This is a behavior problem.
I scooped him below the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom.
"You still have to wash your hands ... with soap!"
Owen stood facing the mirror, continuing to bawl. Every now and then he'd look over to see if his grief was working its magical powers on me.
These theatrics must be effective for Owen at home. But not in my house.
"Wash. Your. Hands."
I wasn't a tantrum thrower. Neither of my brothers were tantrum throwers. We aren't blood related, so it can't be attributed to some tantrum-resistant gene. It must've been good parenting.
My mom told me I threw one truly fabulous fit when I was two. She said it was like something out of a cartoon strip: kicking feet, pounding fists, belly to the ground, ear-splitting shrieks.
A simple
"Leslie, I know you're upset. It's okay to be upset," she said.
Then Mom walked away and continued to sew shoulder pads into her blazers or watch jazzercise videos - or whatever it was moms usually did when their kids weren't hysterical in the late 1980s.
What?! I must've been thinking: All I'm getting out of this is patient acknowledgement of my feelings? Forget it. This is too much effort.
That was it. No more fits.
My students are not all inclined to bawling outbursts, but they all show greater proclivity to whining than I'd like, or that I'm liable to stand for very long.
"TEEEEEEEEEEEEE-Chuh, he hit me!"
Occasionally, they really thunk each other. But most often "Teacher, he hit me" should be interpreted as "Teacher, he accidentally bumped me, I'm in a foul mood, and I want someone get in trouble. Help me out?"
"I don't care." I tell them. I don't say it in an even, pleasant tone, like the experts would probably recommend. I jerk my head side to side and glare.
I say it like a challenge, like I'm the Dirty Harry of pre-school teachers, like one false step, another hint of a whine - even a peep - and the whole classroom could come crashing down.
What are you going to do now that you know I couldn't give two turds that your feelings are hurt? Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
I'm not the epitome of child care professionalism. But this tactic, without fail, stanches the whining and momentarily confuses the whiner. Mission accomplished!
Mystery Solved
I knew much of my steely Alaskan indifference to cold weather wore off after four years in Los Angeles, but these last few weeks my wee Taiwanese students - most of whom have never left the subtropics - had me feeling like a complete foul-weather pansy.
"Teacher, I so hot!" They said frantically fanning their faces.
"Alright, you can turn the air conditioner on."
I waved the complaining student of the day toward the AC, and he or she proceeded to crank it on full blast.
It's about 16 degrees Celsius (60 F) outside. So, no, it's not Fairbanks in February - but it's not balmy either. Plus, the humidity makes it feel colder.
Once the AC is whirring, my classroom quickly reminds me of a Costco-style walk-in refrigerator. The only problem is I can't grab my crate of apples and run, I have to endure the rest of the hour.
I try to stay strong for the students, but often I finish my lesson plan with both hands tucked up my sleeves.
Do I have poor circulation? Am I being the world's biggest baby? What sort of strange, ultra-hot-blooded creatures are seated before me? I wondered.
But today I found my answer. It turned out to be a case of the layers.
I walked over to one of my 7-year-old students, Alan, who was wearing a bulky brown sweater with a polo shirt underneath. Once standing beside him, I noticed something poking out beneath the polo shirt.
"Wait a minute...." I asked. "How many layers do you have on?"
Without waiting for his consent, I hooked a finger around his collar and began counting. The kid was wearing four shirts. Gregory, seated beside him, was wearing three.
James surveyed his class on Friday. Two students had on three layers, and one had on six. Only one of his students was wearing just one shirt.
In short, the Chinese love to bundle. James underwent serious bundling, thanks to his grandma, in Cambodia. On the train in the morning, I see women wearing ankle-length coats that look like what my mom used to wear to work in the dead of Alaskan winter.
I'm just glad it's not me who's going all soft on cold weather. Now I know to blame the parents. :)
"Teacher, I so hot!" They said frantically fanning their faces.
"Alright, you can turn the air conditioner on."
I waved the complaining student of the day toward the AC, and he or she proceeded to crank it on full blast.
It's about 16 degrees Celsius (60 F) outside. So, no, it's not Fairbanks in February - but it's not balmy either. Plus, the humidity makes it feel colder.
Once the AC is whirring, my classroom quickly reminds me of a Costco-style walk-in refrigerator. The only problem is I can't grab my crate of apples and run, I have to endure the rest of the hour.
I try to stay strong for the students, but often I finish my lesson plan with both hands tucked up my sleeves.
Do I have poor circulation? Am I being the world's biggest baby? What sort of strange, ultra-hot-blooded creatures are seated before me? I wondered.
But today I found my answer. It turned out to be a case of the layers.
I walked over to one of my 7-year-old students, Alan, who was wearing a bulky brown sweater with a polo shirt underneath. Once standing beside him, I noticed something poking out beneath the polo shirt.
"Wait a minute...." I asked. "How many layers do you have on?"
Without waiting for his consent, I hooked a finger around his collar and began counting. The kid was wearing four shirts. Gregory, seated beside him, was wearing three.
James surveyed his class on Friday. Two students had on three layers, and one had on six. Only one of his students was wearing just one shirt.
In short, the Chinese love to bundle. James underwent serious bundling, thanks to his grandma, in Cambodia. On the train in the morning, I see women wearing ankle-length coats that look like what my mom used to wear to work in the dead of Alaskan winter.
I'm just glad it's not me who's going all soft on cold weather. Now I know to blame the parents. :)
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Goofy Nativity
I promise I'm almost done posting about Christmas, but I stumbled across this outside a church last night and realized I must share.
It's a picture of baby Jesus cradled by the Island Formosa. He is balanced on top of the Central Mountain Range, to be precise.
According to the accompanying reader board, the 150 is for the fact Jesus first came to Formosa 150 years ago (first missionaries?).
It's a picture of baby Jesus cradled by the Island Formosa. He is balanced on top of the Central Mountain Range, to be precise.
According to the accompanying reader board, the 150 is for the fact Jesus first came to Formosa 150 years ago (first missionaries?).
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Disturbing
In j-school classes I learned that American media outlets are more conservative about airing or printing images of blood and guts than many, perhaps most, countries. Some criticize American media culture for its image censorship, especially when it comes to war and international conflict.
In contrast, the violent story I saw in a local paper today seemed like the basest appeal to morbid curiosity I've ever seen on a front page.
James I were waiting for our breakfast at the little restaurant across from our building. There was a Chinese newspaper on our table and the biggest frontpage story was about the California man who massacred his ex-wife's family. Next to the article there was a big illustration of the murder scene - including a sketch of the guy shooting a little girl in the face.
Civilians aren't allowed guns in Taiwan, and since it took place in the U.S., I guess maybe that makes the whole thing less real for a local audience. But I was appalled.
About a month ago I was watching a TV story about a fatal car accident in Taipei. The reporter got into the passenger side of a car (same make as the crashed car) in order to demonstrate how an unbelted 8-year-old met his death through the windshield.
Both the newspaper article today and the TV story struck me as gratuitous and grotesque. It almost makes me embarrassed to write about them now. But it's so different from what's considered acceptable back home, I thought I'd share.
In contrast, the violent story I saw in a local paper today seemed like the basest appeal to morbid curiosity I've ever seen on a front page.
James I were waiting for our breakfast at the little restaurant across from our building. There was a Chinese newspaper on our table and the biggest frontpage story was about the California man who massacred his ex-wife's family. Next to the article there was a big illustration of the murder scene - including a sketch of the guy shooting a little girl in the face.
Civilians aren't allowed guns in Taiwan, and since it took place in the U.S., I guess maybe that makes the whole thing less real for a local audience. But I was appalled.
About a month ago I was watching a TV story about a fatal car accident in Taipei. The reporter got into the passenger side of a car (same make as the crashed car) in order to demonstrate how an unbelted 8-year-old met his death through the windshield.
Both the newspaper article today and the TV story struck me as gratuitous and grotesque. It almost makes me embarrassed to write about them now. But it's so different from what's considered acceptable back home, I thought I'd share.
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