EFL Recovery

I will not lie: teaching English as a Foreign Language was tough for me.

I don't like grammar. In fact, I pretty much hate it. I love editing, but this could be seen as a form of aggression against grammar: if it's wrong, it makes itself obvious. Kill the bad grammar, and it turns back into a harmless sentence again.

But--grammar theory? I spent 7 years studying French, and spent most of my time drawing comic books. Direct object pronoun, indirect object pronoun, subjunctive, conditional...horrific. It's like talking about the shapes of lines in a painting but never getting to see the work itself.

I took summer classes in college just so I could spend a year studying in France, which gave me no credit towards my major, because I realized finally that there was no way in hell that I was going to learn French unless I got out of the classroom. I moved to Chile to learn Spanish. Basically, I can't learn a language unless I use my obsessive urge to socialize against myself. Even then, I only get so far.

All this means that coming up with either the enthusiasm or the creative lesson plan I needed to teach well was a miss more than hit situation for me. Half the time, when trying to prep for a lesson, I found myself thinking, "They should just get a book, what am I supposed to do about it?"

Anyone who followed my last blog, if there are any of you left, will know that this lead to a severe period of permanent irritability.

So having an actual job, that I actually care about, has been a relief. But there's another side to that coin.

English teaching is unpredictable in many ways. You have no idea what's going to happen in your class. Class 1 might get through your lesson plan in half the time you expected and leave you flapping your mouth like a fish for 45 minutes while you stall. Then Class 2 might spend the entire 90 minutes on your warm-up exercise, after which time your whiteboard will be covered with arrows, stick figures, and other useless illustrations. Put these two together, and it adds up to an hour and a half of misery (generally for the students as well, I'll be fair).

Whatever happens though, it's an hour and a half. Time-wise, English teaching is very predictable. And your lesson planning can vary somewhat, but not wildly. Grading can be disastrously time-consuming, but it too is a limited time. The semester ends. You breathe.

Not so in the normal world of work (to the extent that my situation can be called "normal"). All of a sudden I'm back in the zone of unexpected projects, unexpected bumps in the road, unexpected complaints....just general day-to-day unpredictability. Add to this the fact that I care about my job, and the fact that I live in my workplace, and then I find myself randomly working for 10 hours straight before I notice what's happening and remember that I need to prioritize. A year of a very patterned work life, preceded by several months of an hour-to-hour job at a bookstore, preceded by unemployment, preceded by six months of wandering...well, it's fair to say that my time management muscles have atrophied, if I had any to begin with.

I'd be lying if I said I missed teaching. Last year taught me that, at least when it comes to foreign languages, that is not the path I belong on. In fact, I'm pretty much thrilled to be where I am: busy, interested, working hard.

I'm sure I'll appreciate it once my head stops spinning.

Honeymooning

Moving to a new city is always exciting, particularly if you happen to be an experience junkie (who, me?). About a year ago at this time I was falling madly in love with Valparaiso, Chile.

Now I'm losing my heart to San Francisco.

Unfortunately, I don't actually live in the city, I live in the East Bay. This may change soon. In any event, every time I get the motivation up to head into town, I get that high that comes with a new relationship (with city or person).

While Boston and many other cities I know have come to feel a bit like outdoor malls, with chain stores dominating the landscape, San Francisco has maintained a local feel. Even better, the local locales are loco and lovely (don't worry, I hate me too sometimes).

One example would be the overwhelming number of independent bookstores. I passed at least 4 this past weekend. I've already found my current favorite: Dog Eared Books, a great and inexpensive store with book clubs and other events. Selecting a favorite bookstore, for me, is an absolutely essential step in bonding with a place. In Paris, it was W.H. Smith, across from the Jardin de Tuileries. In New Zealand, it was a used book shop in Kaikoura. In Boston, it was Trinity Books on Newbury Street and of course my former employer, Newtonville Books. In Meadville, my college's bookstore was thankfully independent and stocked well. And in Valpo, it was the multi-lingual bookstore on Cummings, just off of Anibal Pinto.

There are also incredible events and organizations here. I've just found out about one that I'm very excited about: The Bike Kitchen. I've wanted to learn about bicycles for several years now, but there are two major problems: 1. Books about bikes are impenetrable, 2. People who know a lot about bikes tend to get snobby about it and make you regret you ever asked. So when I found out about this place, I was thrilled. For a low membership rate and parts fee, you can build your own bike with the guidance of volunteers. I've been told that there is little to no snobbiness involved. More on this as I get myself involved.

So yes: Valparaiso, I will always love you, but you can really never trust a romantic, now can you?

Alterna-Family

I recently started a new job. One aspect of this position is that my employer emphasizes an alternative work environment. This is probably giving you a mental image of 90's dot coms with pool tables and funky interior decorating. What I'm actually talking about, though, is on a totally different end of the new-workspace spectrum.

I live and work in a home with all of my coworkers--which fluctuates based on who's working abroad at any given time, but when I moved in was at 18.

When I found out that I'd gotten the position, I made a point of enjoying this as much as possible. I cannot tell you the fun that is involved in telling people in a somewhat conservative country, "I'm going to live in a commune." People in Chile thought I was crazy for being a vegetarian--dropping the C word definitely pushed me over into the "insane hippy" category for a few of the people I talked to. Which is a fun thing to accomplish for someone who hasn't owned anything patchwork since the 10th grade.

The truth is though, even my liberal friends were somewhat skeptical of this workspace/living space idea. Frankly, so was I. Imagine any work environment you've ever been in. Dramarama, correct? I worked as an apple-picker for awhile when I was living in New Zealand, and I discovered that it is possible to have office drama even when you have no office, work alone in a row of trees all day, and generally have your iPod on the whole time. (My favorite: "long-arming," which is when someone in the row next to you picks good clusters of apples from your side of the tree. Known long-armers became social pariahs...but we all did it on the sly.)

Now think about any living situation you've had that involved a high number of roommates. Chances are you still hate one of them. I know that I'm carrying around a couple of grudges; one for the girl who created insane house policies by posting angry announcements in the kitchen, one for the woman who would play music outside my door until 4 in the morning, and a big one for all of the people in hostels who pack each of their belongings in its own plastic bag and then pack at 5am. Or the ones who don't bring a flashlight when they know they're coming in late. Or the ones who talk when the other people staying in the room are sleeping. I guess I'll save this for a hostel manifesto.

I digress.

In any event, there are three areas of social contact that are extremely loaded: working together, living together, and traveling together. I have never had a friend with whom I was compatible on all three points. So signing up for a situation in which I would be doing all of these things with the same 20-odd people was a bit daunting.

And by daunting I mean, it sounded like a recipe for making my social life a living hell.

Well, thankfully, I was wrong. Way wrong. And what's followed in the three weeks since I arrived here has been one of those moments in your life when you realize that you've got yourself figured out wrong.

I think it may come down to having a weird set of genes. My father's family is full of loud social people--the kind of people where you pick up the phone and don't have to say your first word for at least 10 minutes. My mother's family, meanwhile, is full of people so reserved that conversation can be a matter of intense effort. So I wound up a little odd, as I see it. With people I know, I am extremely outgoing and almost never shut up. However, for most of my childhood I was so incredibly shy that I preferred dark colored clothing on the grounds that it would make me less noticeable. I pulled a little vigilante Cognitive Behavioral Training on myself, and by now I only feel shy when meeting a large group of new people--but even then I can generally fake comfort until it actually becomes real.

So that's what I did when I arrived in California. Surprisingly, the comfort became real within a few days, thanks to a truly incredible group of people who are accepting of themselves and of others. And that's when the realization settled in: I was made for this kind of situation.

In short, I'm a social addict, and someone let me into the catnip.

At any time of day, if I want to socialize, I wander around until I find someone who isn't working. At the same time, if you're visibly being productive, no one bothers you, so I never feel interfered with. I have dinner every day with at least 10 people. Whenever I want to leave the house, I usually have at least a few options for people to tag along with. Meanwhile, I'm getting to know people socially while also developing an understanding of and respect for them as professionals. The lack of boundary on that front means that compliments flow like water around here, and disputes are dealt with with the frankness you'd use in a social setting. Meanwhile, I laugh more often every day than I ever have.

Today was the first time I've spent time alone since January 31st. I was tired and run down after a bit of an overdone weekend, so I worked in bed (in my pajamas). It was a nice break, but I'll be back in the common areas tomorrow. Yes, I'm honeymooning right now. My blood content of warm fuzzies is probably off the charts. In any case, though, my new living situation has caused me to rethink my perspectives on communities. In Chile, everyone lives with their (often extended) family, and the feeling was extremely claustrophobic to me. Meanwhile, the typical studio-for-one goal that many young North Americans share felt cold and isolating, but roommates seemed like bad news. So here's a middle ground: a group of people who came together over shared ideals and lifestyle goals, living together family style.

So I just may be a way bigger hippy than I thought, because moving into a semi-commune has been the best living situation I've gotten into yet. Now if I could just make friends I don't live with...

It's the new rage

Watch this video. Then vote for it. Featuring several of my coworkers and my supervisor.

East Coast goes West Coast

I grew up in the Metro Boston area. We're known for our liberalism. I distinctly recall, for example, listening to a newscaster on the radio in San Diego decry Massachusetts' legalization of gay marriage as the first step on the "slippery slope" that would drag our country into the abyss. We're also, in what may seem a paradox, known for our general snootiness. I'd contest this in part, but I admit we're not the most laid-back state in the nation.

Following Boston's are-we-edgy-or-are-we-LL Bean ambiguities, I've lived in several largely conservative places, most recently Chile. So when I showed up at the San Francisco airport and two of my coworkers put me in kitty ears and a see-through shirt before taking me off to a Burner party (click here if you're looking baffled), it was a bit of a culture shock. However, while culture shock can often be really and truly unpleasant, this one was rather welcome.

Feeling a bit incapable of adjusting straight from Chile's ethos (where a knee-length skirt can still get you leers the size of the Cheshire Cat's) to San Francisco's (where a street-wear mini-skirt is still not quite flashy enough for certain parties), I opted to keep my tank top on under the top. Inside the club, I met a handful of new coworkers, all of whom would also be my housemates. Meanwhile, a girl in fairy wings, a wig and a bra danced on a table with a man in leather pants while I ate free sushi and circled my way through the open bar line. After a year of struggling to communicate in newly acquired Spanish, it was a relief to chat with people without my brain working itself into a fever, and to make jokes that had at least a chance of not flopping.

Coming back to a culture you recognize is sometimes more rewarding than expected. I didn't want to leave Chile when a new job first came on my radar. I missed it when I left, and I miss it still. But the feeling of release that came from being back in a world that I could understand without effort was stronger than I expected. It hadn't come while visiting my parents in Boston, where I spent most of my time visiting friends. But being there, in a bar with new people, it hit for the first time. More than anything else, being treated as normal felt like a hot tub after a long hike. I knew I was tired of being treated as different, of being harassed by strange men, of being treated like a child at times. But I didn't know how tired I was until I milled around a club without attracting any attention whatsoever.

At 11, the bar went back to normal pricing and we made our way back to Berkeley on BART. After riding micros with their destinations screaming out from colorful signs in the windows, I found myself baffled by the type of transit system I grew up with. It's surprising how difficult it is to predict which things will catch you off guard when you country hop. When I arrived in Valparaiso, the micros confused the hell out of me. 12 months later, I can't understand the concept of looking at a subway map.

Back at the house, I began what is now heading into two weeks of trying to establish connections with the people who now make up the key players in my daily life. Luckily, we all seemed to agree on sitting on the kitchen floor and drinking whiskey as a favorable Saturday night activity, so things got off to a good start.

For those who've followed me from my Chile blog and may be interested in such things, I'm happy to report that I then went on to an excellent first week of work. After a year of teaching students who had no interest in learning English, teaching business people who were never satisfied by the speed of their progress, and writing copy to sell a product I felt indifferent towards, I'm finally back to feeling useful. I am writing full-time for an organization that I believe in, and one in which a writer is most definitely needed. Things are good, and this is sparing you details of my wonderful coworkers and alternative work space (pajamas and beer at the same time? no worries, if you get the writing done).

Since then, I've done some things slightly more interesting (to you, I presume) than just living and breathing and meeting people (all of which are of high interest to me, but I recognize that I'm slightly biased). Stay tuned; hopefully New Blog will soon be updated as frequently as Old Blog.

the fact of space

Song of the Wonderful Surprise
by Kelly Cherry

Start with the fact of space; fill it up
with snow. There will be snow in the sky,
snow on the ground, snow in the mysterious courtyards.
You taste snow's tang, smell snow, feel snow on your face.
If you walk forever, you will not come to a place with no snow,
but one day, looking around, you will find
a green apple hanging from a spray of snow.


My first time around in the blogosphere, I wrote about Valparaiso, Chile. I've now accepted that eight years of slow-moving nomadicism are probably the indication of a trend. So welcome to the blog of someone who has accepted that she cannot sit still for long.