Hartenstein Abroad

Teakwood Inn, Lake Inle Burma

2012-02-15T21:13:00.003+08:00

Running out of money and trying to survive on a shoestring budget, eating bread out of my pockets and kicking the dust off my boots, I checked into the lovely Teakwood Inn.

The Teakwood Inn is a cozy and cool little guest house that is booked up like crazy, so call ahead. There are 47 room, all about 17-to 25 bucks a night, with complimentary breakfast... strong black coffee... and actual mosquito netting over the bed.

Mrs. Lena runs a tight ship, so does her daughter and son, and she looks like a Burmese Queen as she greets you at the counter. Play hardball, because she only wants your crisp hundred dollar bills and sell you on touristy boat trips... but overall, she's helpful and well informed.

But the decor is the selling point, the long balcony on the second floor is perfect for that "getting away" feeling, boasting one of the best sunrises in the city... but the guesthouse also has bicycle rentals and a cool little garden for reading too.

But the best is the early morning jog, coming back just as the giant size avacados arrive from the market and the long lines of red-robed monks pass by single file filling up their rice jars. Don't forget to wake up early...

The Drive from Heho to Lake Inle

2012-02-15T21:03:00.002+08:00

Left Mandalay adn traveled over air and land to the spellbinding Lake Inle, one of Burma's most amazing destinations.

The drive from Heho to Inle was over a barren highway full of check posts with Ak-47 wielding soldiers, donkey carts, abandoned motorcycles, and bundled up peasants sitting cross legged in the dust.

Off the highway onto dirt gravel roads, I saw a young girl my daughter's age leading a water buffalo.

Over the bridge full of pagodas in the distance, fisherman on the shore, and long wooden boats motoring toward the sunrise.

Stopped at the teak monastery to chat with the monks.

Arrived down the dusty trail and it felt like a dream.

Hemingway's The Killers

2012-02-13T22:42:00.002+08:00

The door of Henry’s lunch-room opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.
“What’s yours?” George asked them.
“I don’t know,” one of the men said, “What do you want to eat, Al?” -Hemingway, The Killers

Little side trip down around the village of Amarpurna, kicking around the dust and drinking down by the water in the fading light.

“Give me bacon and eggs,” said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. -Hemingway

These adventures, these lost worlds, where do they all lead?

“Got anything to drink?” Al asked.
“Silver beer, bevo, ginger-ale,” George asked.
“I mean you got anything to drink?” -Hemingway

Reminds me of Hemingway, living for modern day adventure, running with the bulls, shooting the lite cigarettes out of men's mouths with a .22 caliber rifle at ten paces propped up on the bar.

“He’s dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. What’s your name?”
“Adams.”
“Another bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?” -Hemingway

Hemingway is the reason so many men go into teaching. It's his style. His words. But it's also his life.

“You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.”
“What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?”
“He never had a chance to do anything to use. He never even seen us.” -Hemingway

Running off half-cocked into battle, living for today.

Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands on the clock marked seven o’clock, and then five minutes past seven.
“Come on, Al,” said Max. “We better go. He’s not coming.” -Hemingway

That's the thing about Hemingway's characters I love, that even in the face of absolute danger, they don't flinch.

Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prizefighter and he was too long for the bed. -Hemingway

Even in the most tense situations, they don't become emotional. They don't cheat the moment, they accept death completely. Matadors and soldiers, fishermen and pilots, thugs and old prizefighters. The washed-ups and the has-beens. All men are Hemingway characters.

He lay with his head on two pillows he did not look at Nick.
“What was it?” He asked.
“I was up at Henry’s,” Nick said, “and two fellows came in …and they said they were going to kill you.” -Hemingway

Well... today was one of those beautiful days... I had men rowing boats at sundown and wooden bridge planks beneath my feet, young girls giggling at me as they rode past on rusty bicycles and monks to chat with while leaning on fence posts... I can share this with you, this adventure, this never ending road.

“There isn’t anything I can do about it,” Ole Andreson said.
“I’ll tell you want they were like.”
“I don’t want to know what they were like.” -Hemingway

Knowing nothing of where it will take us.

“I can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to get it. It’s too damned awful.”
“Well,” said George, “you better not think about it.” -Hemingway

But I want you all to come, no matter where we go.

Simpson Characters at Shin Pin Shue Gu Pagoda, Mandalay Burma

2012-02-13T16:30:00.001+08:00

The U-Bien Bridge in Mandalay dumps out into a tiny little sleepy village full of Buddhist monks riding around on bicycles and drinking beer in bamboo huts...

Along the road there is a little temple and so I stopped in to take a look while the sun drooped down over the rice fields...and what did I find? Simpson Cartoon Characters.

Okay... this is just a three-headed elephant...so... Cerebus ain't got nothing on this.

(Ralph Wiggum)

(Bastard Offspring of Apu Nahasapeemapetilon and Sideshow Bob)

(Montgomery Burns... 'Excellent!')

(Ned Flanders... 'Hi-de-Ho, Neighbor!')

Then of course, there was just this cool kid watering the lawn.

Who let this dude in here?

Famed U Bien Bridge at Amarapura

2012-02-13T00:01:00.003+08:00

Skinned out to Amarapura on the back of a little flatbed truck, just bumping and hopping and spitting up dust on the way to a 2km long teak bridge over a rice field the locals call paradise.

Caught it just at the tip of afternoon where the sun was coming down over the lake, coolest part of the day it was.

Sometimes the distance is like this farraway dream that we swear is real if we can just get to it...touch it, prove it to ourselves. That's what walking across this bridge is like.

Monks and peddlers, children in uniform riding atop bicycles, locals, pilgrims, farmers and fishermen, tourists and traders, all walk across these wooden planks.

While the men work. Back breaking work. Rice fields. Knee deep in the muck and the weeds pulling out enough food to fee a nation.

Some things stay with you...not because of the distance you travel to make it real but because of the closeness you feel when it comes to you.

If ever there was a tree in need of a tree house...come on now, Burmese boys...get on this.

Such colors too. Just vibrant and alive.

Even the lines speak to you... keep you straight but guessing.

This gaggle of gals just owned me, chatted me up and left me giggling.

If you look close...really close... you'll see what I mean.

It's all about timing. Having perfect timing. Isn't it? What a lovely day, an absolute lovely day!

Daytrip from Mandalay: Mingun Paya

2012-02-12T12:28:00.001+08:00

The Mingun Paya is basically the biggest pile of bricks you've ever seen, with this little cliff hanging path up the side over jagged stones and ten meter drop-offs...oh, and you have to do it barefoot after sifting through a dusty village full of beaten dogs, worn out street vendors, and a chug-a-lug boat ride down the Ayerarwaddy River. Sounds like a perfect day trip to me.

Awoke in ET Hotel, this dingy little four story guest house, tossed some salt,pepper, and strawberry jam over complimentary scrambled eggs and dry toast and headed out to see the day.

Arranged a truck taxi with two giggling Chinese girls to Gawwen Jetty for the boat ride to Mingun. Chatted in the dustiest office ever seen by human eyes with a toothless old gummy man about global warming, watched his red betel nut spitting lips while we stood in the shade and watched the men untie the boats and pull them to shore.

Across the Ayeyarwady River on a chugging and sputtering outboard motor ferry boat 11km for over an hour on the calm water to little village of Mingun.

The Mingun Paya is actually the remains of a planned 150 m stupa. Kicked shoes off in the dust and climbed in barefeet… once atop, view over the river was outstanding. Such bright heat. Then Walked along the dusty road to Mingun bell, world’s second largest…and into Hsinbyume Paya, the wavy terraced white stuped temple.

The villagers were sweet and innocent...this dusty mud rubbed on the children's faces is a mixture of clay and water pounded by tree branches. It is used as a charm, heat absorber, and beauty mark.

But I didn't get to chat with the villagers much. I tried though, but most just wanted me to have a drink and leave them alone. So I did.

These little boy monks...it's more like boarding school than Buddhist training... parents send them off to work and learn to read and write. Monks are good teachers, I bet.

High atop Mingun Paya, I survey my next move. Yeah, I'm pretty pale huh. That changed by the end of the trip.

It's funny the things you remember from little day trips here and there. This boy was so curious of me, yet so shy when I wanted to take his picture. Had to sneak it a little...with his permission of course. Just like letting me travel to his village... with his permission.

Self-Portraits from a 6 Year Old

2012-02-12T09:39:00.001+08:00

The good news is, my kids are in Korea and doing very well... the bad news, of course, other than being apart... is that apparently my middle daughter envisions herself as a Grand Wizard with funny flowers on her hat. Looks like somebody is missing his kids, huh?

Second Conditionals at Settawya Paya, Mingun Burma

2012-02-12T09:34:00.009+08:00

I’m happy to skip Chapter Five in the text. I know a lot of teachers jump around. They’ll start with Victorian Era drama then move to novels of Magical Realism then off to Contemporary World Poetry before their favorite unit on the Harlem Renaissance. They compromise effortlessly. Make their curriculum sequences after checking library schedules and conferring with other teachers. I guess that’s the right way, but…
Not me.
No, it’s easier for me to see things chronologically. Start at the beginning and then move to the next era…or backwards. I don’t mix and match. AND… I don’t compromise.

I also don’t teach grammar. Let me be clear. The myriad of complexities and theorems that contrive the English language at its highest brilliance is, like the pursuit of science or math, very sexy… but it’s a waste of my time in a literature class.

Furthermore, if you find yourself teaching literature in a foreign country, it is absolutely a waste of your time to teach nationals grammar. Yes, it is! I know they will beg you to diagram sentences at the board and you feel so powerful because you know when to use the gerund and when count and non-count nouns are needed, but you might as well flush your western education down the toilet because you’re not putting it to use.

The more I stand in classrooms in front of bemused and bewildered nationals, the more I realize it is imperative that they be challenged to engage you in discussion and critical thinking. They must be pushed to demonstrate they can communicate the big picture to their teacher. Because if they can’t, they will remain in this catatonic grammar entranced state the rest of their life.

That’s why I don’t mind skipping Chapter Five. Believe me, the Realism Period after the Civil War is important, but I can put Jack London and Hart Crane on the shelf. Rather, it’s time to move to post World War II and the Modern World.

Finally, something they get. Gone is the self-deprecation of Mark Twain and the speeches of Abraham Lincoln after Reconstruction. To be replaced with Hemmingway and Steinbeck and a generation that is just behind their parents. Topics they understand because they were spoken about around the holiday table with their grandparents. They finally have something to say, and we can begin a discussion of just exactly what is modern culture.

I show them these picture of Burma. I show them the garbage and the horse drawn carts, the decayed colonial architecture and the shining red stupas. Then I show them pictures of Taiwan, the office buildings , the people working, and I ask them to compare. I push them for answers. I ask if they can see the transformation of their country? But most importantly, I ask them if they feel a responsibility to help. Since Burma is their neighbor, do they feel an obligation to go there, to educate, to serve, to reform? I push them to think and to feel, and I tell them this is the mark of the modern person.

It takes time, and I pull out all the stops. There is even this little grammar note in the text that I use, but no… not in the way the Chinese teachers want it employed: through drills and repetition. It is called a “Second Conditional,” which is a statement where two possibilities have to come true like: If it rains, will you still have a picnic? I know, totally silly. But the way I use it is: You wouldn’t have __________ if you didn’t first have __________, and you wouldn’t have __________, if you didn’t first have __________. Then I show them pictures.

I give them Justin Bieber and say he wouldn’t be possible without Michael Jackson, who wouldn’t be possible without James Brown and Duke Ellington and Frederick Douglas. I show them Barack Obama within the context of Jesse Jackson, Martin Luther King, Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas Paine. I show them Kobe Bryant within the context of Bob Cousy and the Greek IMF bailout through pictures of the London Blitz bombings. I ask them to see not just the ONE thing in front of them, but the line of influences that this thing carries. Only then can a person be considered modern. To have that sensibility, to have that big picture inside them. It’s a roll of the dice, I know. But it’s worth the try.

I think back to that day I spent in Mingun for so many reasons, and I carry it with me now in ways I cannot write here. Yes, I am totally compromised in my personal life, but at least in the classroom, I answer only to myself. As I stand before students, I know I have placed myself in a long line of what has come before me and what shall most assuredly come after. I think about all that has influenced and shaped me, and I know, the best is yet to come.

Yes, that was quite long winded. But this was the best moment of my trip to Burma. Sitting here in Mingun after the quiet boat ride, thinking such sweet thoughts. Wondering, if it is true for me, could it be true for someone else as well?

Boat Ride to Mingun

2012-02-09T20:07:00.000+08:00

Took the day trip from Mandalay across the Arrawaddy River to the tiny village of Mingun.

Nice to be out on the water, somewhere away from the dust and dirt and garbage, probably the only place that isn't covered in trash.

Water does such strange things to a person, calms you, quiets you, makes the beating of your heart slow down as well and flow out of you.

Little outboard fishing boat with a top deck for passengers to sit and feel the sun on their cheeks.

But not me, I like to sit down in the belly of the ferry and let my toes drag along in the river stream.

Mingun is about a 90 minute ride from the Mandalay dock, it's a sleepy little village with a couple of small temples and a massive stone sculpture that is a pilgrimage to climb.

I like standing on the shore, like watching the water pass, like watching the little ships with fishing poles and the men smiling and waving as they ride by.

Little lazy sleeping men resting the morning away.

Pass by the little farms and the simple life.

That's why these mornings are so perfect, the simple life, riding along the water towards the sunshine.

Shel Silverstein's Dirty Dan

2012-02-08T16:31:00.001+08:00

"Oh, I'm Dirty Dan, the world's dirtiest man,
I never have taken a shower.
I can't see my shirt--it's so covered with dirt,
And my ears have enough to grow flowers."-Silverstein

Before I came to Burma, I read so much about warnings to foreigners lamented the damage that we could cause by traveling there...

"But the water is either a little too hot,
Or else it's a little too cold." -Silverstein

That if we did visit, we had to be careful to take care of their culture, not exploit, and to preserve their way of life.

"I'm musty and dusty and patchy and scratchy
And mangy and covered with mold."-Silverstein

Yet when I arrived, I was stunned at how disgusting, polluted, and destroyed the environment was by the very hands of the Burmese people.

"I live in a pen with five hogs and a hen
And three squizzly lizards who creep in." -Silverstein

Trash and garbage and dust swept from corner to corner... and I understand this is the effect of a totalitarian society... and what defense could the Burmese people actually mount against this?

"My bed, and they itch as I squirm, and I twitch
In the cruddy old sheets that I sleep in." -Silverstein

But I also saw such horrible displays by local people. Men on trains just tossing garbage out the window, and the sides of the ground littered... I mean just covered in trash.

"In you looked down my throat with a flashlight, you'd note
That my insides are coated with rust.
I creak when I walk and I squeak when I talk,
And each time I sneeze I blow dust." -Silverstein

There was hardly anywhere...and I traveled all throughout the country, that I wasn't constantly stepping over trash.

"The thought of a towel and soap makes me howl,
And when people have something to tell me
They don't come and tell it--they stand back and yell it.
I think they're afraid they might smell me." -Silverstein

I saw taxi drivers in National Parks finish plastic water bottles and then...almost as if for fun...toss them up in the air and leave them where they fell.

"The bedbugs that leap on me sing me to sleep,
And the garbage flies buzz me awake.
They're the best friends I've found and I fear they might drown
So I never go too near a lake." -Silverstein

I saw a dead rat next to a restaurant and nobody cleaned it up... women washing clothes in the gutter... packs of sick dogs roaming the streets... men shaving in polluted pools, and completely unsanitary feces and urination ditches where children play.

"Each evening at nine I sit down to dine
With the termites who live in my chair,
And I joke with the bats and have intimate chats
With the cooties who crawl in my hair." -Silverstein

Even more shocking was the abuse toward animals. Dogs beaten routinely on the streets, house cats being chased around neighborhoods by children beaning their heads with rocks... even the driver of a horse cart picking up a couple of dirt clod rocks and throwing them at the face of the horse for not obeying... I was stunned. Completely stunned that the Burmese have let their country fall into such disrepair.

"I'd brighten my life if I just found a wife,
But I fear that will never be
Until I can find a girl, gentle and kind,
With a beautiful face and a sensitive mind,
Who sparkles and twinkles and glistens and shines--
And who's almost as dirty as me." -Silverstein

So what traveling to Burma impressed upon me is not to warn or scare foreigners away...or to force them to re-consider traveling here because of the country's politics...but rather to implore more foreigners to visit, to seek employment, to make lasting friendships...that's what Burma needs...foreign teachers and doctors and engineers and nurses...people who understand the value of human life...more than money or business opportunities... and believe me, I saw plenty of Korean, Chinese, and European businesmen scheming... but instead Burma needs people to educate about garbage, sanitation, and personal cleanliness. Okay, that's my Shel Silverstein Soap Box for the day. Thanks for letting me vent!

Traveling into Kipling's Mandalay

2012-02-08T08:50:00.003+08:00

“By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me.” -Kipling, Mandalay

For the longest time as a boy, I believed Rudyard Kipling to be an American. Completely preposterous, I know, Kipling is the quintessential Brit and unapologetic preserver of the Queen’s soverign imperialistic realm, but in the innocence of my childhood, I made no distinction.

“For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!’” –Kipling, Mandalay

In those days, Kipling, as he does to this day, sits very quietly on my mother’s bookshelf in between the Complete Works of William Shakespeare and Mark Twain, and the Love Poems of Alexander Pushkin and Emily Dickinson- all of who were Americans in my childhood heart, or more importantly, neighbors.

“An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot.” -Kipling, Mandalay

You see, I really believed that Hamlet and Eugene Onegin and Tom Sawyer and Mowgli were my friends, and that heading out into the fields towards the trees of my parent’s farm in Colton, was like wandering with Baloo and Bagheera into the jungle- that standing cows were the ominous Sheer Khan, and eerie sounds in the forest trees the mysterious python Kaa.

“When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing ‘Kulla-lo-lo!’” –Kipling, Mandalay

I know. I was a total literary kid dork! But The Jungle Book, other than Peter Pan and Robin Hood, the three greatest Disney Cartoons for a boy with an unbreakable imagination that could never be sullied with the harsh realities of truth, was a great inspiration to me.

“With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.” -Kipling, Mandalay

The realization that Kipling was in fact, gasp… British! sadly, came quickly. Reading works such as “Just So Stories,” “Gunga-Din,” and “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” ensured that I began to see the world not just as full of adventure and wild heroic danger, but also as power exerted over class and society.

“An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
‘If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.’” -Kipling, Mandalay

Two amazing adventure stories stand out: 1. The absolutely magnificent KIM, about a young white boy growing up in India who befriends a Tibetan monk, and 2. The Man Who Would Become King, based on two real life stories of Brit and American who traveled Asia as vagabonds and later became gods, ruled my imagination as a boy.

“Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst.” -Kipling, Mandalay

But another of Kipling’s works was always in my memory, and that is the poem, Mandalay. Yes, Mandalay! Such a word. There are certain names of cities that just capture imagination: Carthage, Troy, Atlantis, Shangri-La, and Mandalay is another.

“On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!” -Kipling, Mandalay

So I finally found my chance to visit this storied city, riding across dusty roads and through dirty mountains, to finally arrive in the back of a truck with a scarf wrapped around my face in the glare of motorbike headlights and dim street lamps. Mandalay, here you are, just another lost and forgotten city on a list of boyhood dreams, laying out in the grass and watching clouds. I am here. You are with me now forever, as you have always been.

P.S. I feel like I'm still living that bookcase. How sweet is that? Thanks, Mom!

The ET Hotel, Mandalay's Backpacker Haven

2012-02-07T10:18:00.000+08:00

The ET Hotel in Mandalay is a shoestring wonder. Yep, it's yucky and dingy, but totally worth it.

Single rooms can be found for around 12 to 15 dollars a night, re-check your Lonely Planet prices, but doubles with bathroom go for around 18-24 a night. Yes, there is hot water, and the rooms are big enough to do push-ups and yoga on the floor while still having space to hang your washed socks and shirts on a rack.

The breakfast is complimentary, which is true for most Burmese guesthouses, and good for some scrambled eggs and fried rice, and the main restaurants and bars are just a quick five minute walk away.

Also, the front desk staff is very helpful with information on some of the amazing day trips like the cool and stunning U Bien Bridge and the delightful boat ride to Mingun. In fact, that is really the only reason to come to Mandalay, skip that freaking palace in the center of town, but definitely hit the teak monastery and Mandalay Hill is okay too, if you are bored and needing to kill some time before checking out.

Bicycle rentals are a good way to see the city too, but absolutely bring a scarf, because this place is dirty! Sooty and dusty and if you have asthma, keep your inhaler close. I awoke every morning with mild asthma attacks, which isn't a new thing in Asia for me, but the dust here is not to be underestimated. Good luck. Check out the ET Hotel, pretty decent wify in the little hotel lobby too. Well, keep your fingers and toes crossed for that!

Updates to Lonely Planet Burma Travel Section / The Insein Prison Pictures

2012-02-07T10:09:00.002+08:00

So basically... this blog is devoted to correcting some mistakes found in the Burma / Myanmar sections of the latest Lonely Planet publication.

It's not Lonely Planet's fault. They are the gold standard of travel books, but the thing is, everybody carries Lonely Planet... everywhere! They are often more valuable than money... but things change and so as of February 7, 2012, here are some updates. If you are lucky enough to access internet in Burma and this helps you, than great. If you stumble upon this blog post while preparing your trip, just read: Maybe this will help prevent you from making some of the travel mistakes I made.

1. Credit Cards are not accepted anywhere in Burma! I repeat. NONE! Burmese people are not even allowed to have credit cards. So believe me, if you've been through Cambodia and India and even China for crying out loud, and you were able to get cash at Money Exchanges and think...oh sure, I'll just get a cash advance in Burma...think again. I ran out of money early in the trip, and basically had to shoestring my budget completely to be able to survive. Please be careful in this.

2. Another thing that must be underlined is the quality of your U.S. bills. Hotels, guesthouses, restaurants, money exchangers, will straight look you in the eye and tell you your perfectly good $100 dollar bill is not up to Burmese standards if it has even the slightest crease or wrinkle in it. I was turned down dozens of times with a hundred dollar bill because it was not in MINT condition. And by MINT, I mean, it didn't give me a paper cut just touching it. Don't bring anything to Burma that isn't straight off the bank presses.

3. Lonely Planet writes of Internet Cafes, but in truth, there is no internet in Burma. Internet Explorer is not allowed nor is Mozilla, Bing, or often Yahoo. Safari was the only acceptable search engine, and forget about using iPhones. Though you can buy an Angry Bird t-shirt in any market, Burma has no 3G network, so you might as well just leave your phone at home, or bring one of your older models. I kept my old Nokia, which on occasion, actually worked. Its very rare to even see a Burmese person with a cell phone, which is crazy in this day and age where kid riding elephants in Sumatra can access Facebook, but here, forget it. Sorry Zuckerberg, but your world domination has still at least one more country to go.

4. Here are a couple more things Lonely Planet mentions that need updating. They said don't change money at the airport, but that's where I found the best exchange rates, and YES, I was totally broke and in fear I wouldn't be able to get out of the country, so I checked everything.

5. Another couple of funny things are just for this blog. On the Yangon Circle line, Lonely Planet suggests to not to take picture of the famous Insein Prison, but I got off the train here (as this blog picture shows) and was able to without any problem. Although many other times I was told to put my camera away, like when taking pictures of this creepy bar fashion runway show...so..who knows?

Also, swimming at the Savoy Hotel, totally worth it... I mean... after all the dust and dirt of this place, the Savoy in Yangon is an oasis, but it ain't free. $10 U.S.. Also, Aung Sun Suu Kyi's house is NOT accessible at all by University Street. You can't even get close. Walk up to the compound is more like it, BUT...if you go to a little silk screen t-shirt shop at the base of Dagon Tower, you can buy country patches, and they will make an old school painted silk-screen N.L.D. tee for you... her political party! AND the proceeds will go to the democracy movement and not line the corrupt government pockets. Pretty Cool! So...enjoy your travel, mistrust advertisements, especially canoe trips in Inle Lake, which basically just take you around to specialized government shops where they get pissed if you don't buy stuff. Other than that, get out and enjoy.
P.S. The Burmese people call their country Burma, and most have no idea what Myanmar is.

Riding Trains Through Burma

2012-02-06T16:03:00.008+08:00

You didn't think I was going to come to Burma without getting on a train did you? Of course not!

The Yangon Circle Line is a pretty cool way to spend the day. That is, if you can find the main train station.

Just off Aung Sun Bogyoke Market straight across from the Sakura Tower, the Yangon Main Train Station is a dirt floor cafe, dimly lit, barred entrance, pit.

Believe me, it takes an ounce of courage just to step into the place, with roving packs of dogs and men sitting in the dark smoking, you've got to stiffen your upper lip and just go with it.

But if you do, you will find that the main entrance to the station is actually along the outside main road, up the stairs, across the highway sky bridge, and down the stairs onto the track platform.

There you can buy tickets for the three hour ride. Cost: 1 U.S. dollar.

It's absolutely worth it. Although, let's face it, a young person could probably jog about as fast as the train runs... and forget about overnight trips. That was the first thing I wanted but was told NO. Burmese trains just don't run anymore.

They've been replaced by overnight private bus companies. So for the best train ride, try the Yangon Circle Loop.

Kids board selling shaved ice and the woman with a giant bowl of stacked bread she carries on her head... will great you. There is the man tossing peanut shells out the window and the hard benches and red interior alone are worth the trip.

Trains leave every couple of hours, yes, LONELY PLANET needs to be updated, and the adventures at each station look cool to get off and explore. Have fun!

White House Hotel / Guesthouse, Yangon Burma

2012-02-05T13:21:00.000+08:00

The White House Hotel/Guesthouse in Yangon is a backpacker treasure. Tucked inside the Indian/Muslim Quarter down toward the water on 32nd street, the White House offers tiny closet-sized rooms (no kidding, open the door there's the bed, barely big enough for a suitcase) for $17 U.S. a night (actually, that's a total rip-off, isn't it?) Call a couple of days ahead (Hint: have your hotel desk make the call for you), if you just show up at the door, you'll most likely get turned away.

Lonely Planet does a nice write up on the White House, but the real publicity came a few years back when the Discovery Channel came here for a little piece. It's probably due to the stairs. Yes, the White House has about a zillion stairs leading up to it's rooftop kitchen.

But the view going up is awesome! And although the interior is a little mesmerizing, the good natured English speaking owners at the desk offer great tips, informative maps, and help make arrangements for future stays. (Though my recommendation is, just visit one of the tour agencies in the Sakura Tower for train/bus tickets and hotel reservations, then head up to the 20th floor to the Sky Bistro for a look over the city).

Another note, few rooms actually come with a private bathroom. Sit down toilets are available down the hall, with limited privacy. Showers are across the small hallway and wake up early because hot water runs out around 7 a.m.

Finally, the coolest thing about the White House is the awesome Buffet Breakfast, which they say is the 'Best in the World,' but hardly. If you're lucky, they might bring out some avocado salad (the avocados in Burma are genetically altered, superhuman softball size, you will stand shocked at their size, totally delish!)but other than that, it's toast over hot coals and some stale coffee. Eat your bananas! You'll find plenty here. If your traveling in pairs it's good for what ails ya! The stairs, that is. It's not that hard getting up in the morning.

Shwedagon Paya, Yangon

2012-02-05T13:20:00.003+08:00

Kipling wrote: "A beautiful winking wonder that blazed in the sun, of a shape that was neither Muslim dome nor Hindu temple spire..."

"The Golden dome said, 'This is Burma, and it will be quite unlike any land that one knows about,'"

Rudyard was right! Truly the shining and defining symbol of Yangon and of Burmese identity, this massive gold dome is impossible to miss.

It's a whopping $10 entrance fee...which was enough to cover almost half my room and board for the night...oh, did I happen to mention that Burma doesn't accept credit cards... and so I basically landed and had to scrap my budget and go completely shoestring? I didn't...? Oh, then the ten large I paid at the door better be worth it.

Shoes off at all Burmese temples...I don't know why, it's basically filthy everywhere you go. So... toes got totally burned on the hot sun tiles and heels got totally blackened by the sooty shade... but that's just me complaining, isn't it?

Actually, the Shwedagon Paya in the center of Yangon city, is a must see for all visitors.

It is 2,500 years old, a testament to religious faith, it is draped in gold, and is the destination for pilgrims across the country at least once in their life. (I think this is a Burmese Leprechaun pointed the way to the pot of gold.)

The compound is comprised of 82 small buildings, everything from smaller temples to off-limits prayer rooms to sleeping quarters.

There aer also some funny stories associated with the temple. One is that during the 15th century, Queen Shinsawbu gilded part of the dome with her own weight in gold. Another has to do with an enormous bell that resides int he northwest compound that was dropped accidentally in the river by the British and left for dead, only to be resurfaced by the Burmese using some low-tech bamboo.

The temple is also said to hold 8 hairs of the Buddha. That's kind of creepy though.

There are two entrances, one with an elevator on the south side, but skip that and enter through the fantastic golden dragoned gate on the north side for an incredible effect.

Finally, I have to say, "If you've seen one temple, you've seen them all," but perhaps I'm a bit jaded on my travels. Truly, this is a spectacular visit, the gold alone was so bright in the blue sky. A trip well worth it. Go early in the morning before it gets too hot. Enjoy!

Bracing for Impact

2012-02-04T18:34:00.003+08:00

Got called into the administrator’s office the day I left for Burma. Grades done. Exams in the books. Lesson plans for second semester finished. What’s the problem? There’s been a complaint against me again. My old nemesis, the Chinese homeroom teacher, is angry. She says I’ve been erasing the chalkboard when I use her room. That’s it, can you believe it? She actually went to an administrator and complained that I erase her homework assignments even though it’s MY class. The administrator asked me to STOP. The two of us, sitting in this little room, and she is telling me to STOP.

I tell the administrator that I’ve been teaching for 18 years. In all that time, not once, not once have I ever made a formal complaint against another teacher. Not once. But this year, this same Chinese teacher has made almost a dozen formal complaints against me, spread rumors about me to parents, fabricated stories, and openly analyzed and criticized me to the same students we share. Why?

The administrator had no answer. She just stared at the floor and wrung her hands and admitted… it is a tragedy, no tragedy is the wrong word…it is a shame, no shame is not right either… I just crossed my arms and looked at her. “This is what I want,” I tell the administrator, “next time that Chinese teacher complains about me, tell her to take an egg… and suck it!”
I got up and walked out of the room.

Today in Burma I wandered the streets of the Muslim Quarter in Yangon. I watched men get shaved on the street. Saw boys kicking soccer balls in the alley. Saw women in Burkahs and street hawkers selling sunglasses and stacks of remote controls, and ordinarily, when I pass through these streets, I am completely invisible.

But not today. Today everyone saw me. I was stared at, glared at, actions stopped as I walked by. Men dropped their screwdrivers and hammers and stood up from their machines as I passed. Workers stopped scooping cement and leaned on their shovels to sneer. Old men crushed their cigarettes and frowned at me. It was such an unusual day. I felt the whole time, as if I were a moment from being attacked.

Back at the school, I walked out of the office and crossed the street to Starbucks for a morning coffee. I was still steaming from the meeting with the administrator and just needed to relax. I order and move to the pick-up counter, and then here it comes. Door opens, guy steps in carrying a big bag over his shoulder. Typical Asian man. He’s looking around. Not paying attention to anything but himself. There’s plenty of room around me. I’ve been standing in the same spot for two minutes, and here he comes, right at my chest. He doesn’t see me. How could he see me? He is looking at everything but me, and we are going to collide.

The reason I was so angry with this administrator is two days before. This Chinese homeroom teacher and a parent have been teaming up to conspire against me and get me fired. Oh yes, once again. What is their problem? They don’t like that I’ve become too popular. That too many students like my class. As the second semester approaches and students prepare for the National Exam, the Chinese homeroom teacher wants to cut my classes in half to use that time to prepare for the test.

The students and parents have complained. They want to spend time with me. They find my class fun and useful. But the Chinese homeroom teacher wants that time because if her students perform well on the test she can take credit, and if they fail, she has made it CLEAR that it is my fault. Even though I have no idea what is on the National Exam, have not taught any subject about that in my curriculum, and in fact, the whole test is in Chinese.

So I was called into the office and told of this. That teachers and parents were spreading rumors about me again. So I asked if I could confront them? If I could meet these parents face to face? I was told, NO. This would be too embarrassing for the Chinese teacher and the parents because they don’t speak English. I was just to take it. Take it on the chin. The administrators were sorry, but that was all they could do.

So that morning standing in the coffee shop, with nothing around me but open space, I could have gotten out of the man’s way. I could have seen that he was an ignorant meathead idiot and heading right for me and just been a gentleman and stepped aside. But I decided against it. I braced for impact. I tightened the muscles in my chest and bent my knees, leaned in and at the moment that moronic, stone-headed buffoon looked up and finally saw me it was too late. He didn't know what hit him.

Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

2012-02-04T11:43:00.000+08:00

"These nights are very unclear here. But the moon is full, we know it." -Raymond Carver, Romanticism

Strolling around Yangon's decayed colonial architecture at dusk, I walk for miles through the city until I reach the river. Stop and sit on the cinder blocks while the muddy water flows and think about Raymond Carver

"So early it's still almost dark out. I'm near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought." -Raymond Carver, Happiness

"Anyway, it's too late for you, as I said. You're grownup now, and lovely..." -Raymond Carver, To My Daughter

"Every man's life is a mystery, even as yours is, and mine." -Raymond Carver, Reading

"When I came out here I was trying to get away from everything. Especially literature." -Raymond Carver, Radio Waves

"Driving lickety-split to make the ferry! Snow Creek and then Dog Creek fly by in the headlights." -Raymond Carver, Movement

"I love you, Bro, you said. And then a sob passed between us." -Raymond Carver, The Old Days

"Moving toward whatever ancient thing it is that works the chains..." -Raymond Carver, Energy

"Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes." -Raymond Carver, Rain

"It pleases me, loving rivers, loving them all the way back to their source. Loving everything that increases me." -Raymond Carver, Where Water Comes Together With Other Water

These evenings, wandering until lost, legs throbbing, back covered in sweat, skin tight and picked from the sun, all I hope is to sit by the water and find the place where forgetting and remembering come together. Give away and Keep. I hope you all have days like today.

"Home Thoughts From Abroad" by Robert Browning

2012-02-04T10:53:00.001+08:00

"Oh, to be in England now that April's there, and whoever wakes in england sees, some morning, unaware." -Browning

While walking through the Yangon Chinatown Market, stepping over litter-ridden gutters and kicking dust beside market stalls, I paused for a moment to recite an old Robert Browning poem I've always loved about Spring and flowers and such sweet thoughts...I could use it in this old place full of filth. I hope you all like it too. Here are some faces I saw while reciting Browning. That's funny, isn't it?

"That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf." -Browning

"While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough in England -now!" -Browning

"And after April, when May follows, and the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!" -Browning

"Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge leans to the filed and scatters on the clover..." -Browning

"Blossoms and dewdrops- at the bent spray's edge- that's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over..." -Browning

"Lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!" -Browning

"And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, all will be gay when noontide wakes anew..." -Browning

"The buttercups, the little children's dower far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!" -Browning

(Robert Browning was a great traveler. He wrote this poem in Italy, the county he loved best, next to England of course.)

Poems Sent through the Mail

2012-02-03T09:01:00.002+08:00

"The Fluffy Owl" A Poem sent to me on the road by Xian, my almost 8 year old.

Fluffy Owl on a Tree

With Large Round Yellow Eyes

I say, "Hoot Hoot," and it says "Hoot Hoot" back to me.

I use all my strength to yell out loud...

And said, "Papa, an Owl answered me."

And Papa said, "I know.

I was standing here in the shadows watching."

Sometimes... the best things about traveling are the letters we get from home. Miss you my little loves.

Eric Arthur Blair’s Burmese Days

2012-02-01T21:58:00.000+08:00

“They went out into the glaring white sunlight. The heat rolled from the earth like the breath of an oven.” -Orwell

George Orwell said that good fiction prose should be like a window pane and what’s not to see through that? Born Eric Arthur Blair in 1903 in India, his parents moved to England in 1907 and ten years later he entered Eton.

“The flowers, oppressive to the eyes, blazed with not a petal stirring, in a debauch of sun. The glare sent a weariness through one’s bones.” -Orwell

Blair returned to Asia in 1922 serving with the Indian Imperial Police in Burma until 1927. His first book, Burmese Days, chronicles this time.

“There was something horrible in it- horrible to think of that blue, blinding sky, stretching on and on over Burma and India, over Siam, Cambodia, China, cloudless and interminable.” -Orwell

There is a literary joke in Myanmar, that Orwell actually wrote three books about Burma, Animal Farm and 1984 being the other two, and who disagrees with that?

“‘Seditious?’ Flory said. ‘I’m not seditious. I don’t want the Burmans to drive us out of the country. God forbid!’“ -Orwell

Burmese Days tells the story of the last days of the British Empire’s control in the region, crumbling around them into the dust as power is lost to indigenous corruption and Imperial bigotry.

“‘But, my dear friend, what lie are you living?’“ -Orwell

In the middle of this are such profound characters: U Po Kyin, the Burmese magistrate, who longed always to work beside British officers but instead rises to power through bribes and extortion, deciding to destroy the life of Dr. Veraswami, whose only chance at survival is to be allowed into the ‘All White’ British Club. The pockmarked and cowardly Flory, who falls in love with Elizabeth, seeing marriage as his only way to socially climb out, but who dies amid the racist hatred of his fellow Englishman.

“‘Consider that there are also other achievements of your countrymen. They construct roads, they irrigate deserts, the conquer famines, they build schools, they set up hospitals, they combat plague, cholera, leprosy, small pox, venereal disease…’” -Orwell

Burmese Days is a languishing book, one that must be plowed through and deforested like one of Flories trips into the jungle.

“’Cur, spineless cur,’ Flory was thinking to himself… he had reason to call himself names.’” -Orwell

But as one reads, Orwells’ brilliance is in such rare form. Such mental exertion to create diverse characters that converse and fight and bicker and eventually establish in the reader’s mind a clear picture of an area long lost.

“There is a humility about genuine love that is rather horrible in some ways.” -Orwell

I read most of Burmese Days deep in the night, sitting in the bedside of cheap hotels, by small overhanging light. While the mosquitoes swarmed and the electricity flickered and the dust on the window blinds stood still.

“He who dies in Burma is soon forgotten.” -Orwell

I see the toll this place takes on people. I see it in the foreigners who flash across the landscape in chartered planes and who barely take a moment but to stand in a famous spot for a sunset before racing to another destination to soak in teak monastery aromas at dawn.

“There is no armor against fate.” -Orwell

There’s something missing here. Something lost. Something that I will not be able to find. It has been ripped or stolen away so long ago that the Burmese people have forgotten it ever existed. Perhaps it was just burned up in the sun and the remains are the dust and grime that floats in the air and sticks to every possible substance. That lost thing…call it hope or a soul or a fleeting thought, it is irrelevant because it is gone.

Hiding Out in Bogyoke Aung Sun Market

2012-02-01T21:46:00.003+08:00

Spent the morning rummaging through the Bogyoke Aung Sun Market in central Yangon. This is where the democracy protests took place a few years back...

It's a lovely sprawling spot that feels cozy and exotic inside. Perfect for rummaging for souvenirs and cool hidden treasures.

Local artists display their work and are happy to sit on the pavement with you drinking tea or walk you upstairs to see their studio.

There are silk blankets and dresses, laquerware, wooden carvings, all kinds of jewelry. But mostly it's the people watching that inspires me.

Men sitting and chatting on low tables, women quietly sewing on raised bamboo stilt partitions, children running in the alleyways playing badminton.

It's a perfect little spot.

This is one of the only places in the city that isn't covered in dirt. Across the streets in the messy Indian and Muslim Quarter, the gutters are littered with trash, streets strewn with filth.

But here there is a reverence, perhaps money is the only holy thing these people respect.

The pockets of squalor are still easy to find though. The beggar squatting low, passed over by the shopping hoards, or the little homeless boy selling crayon drawings that breaks your heart so hard you have to buy one.

Please know I'm doing okay. I'm here. There is sunlight, enough to pink my skin in the late afternoon, alleys for exploring, and always a hot pot of tea ready to be sipped when I decide to sit. I'm happy, hiding here amongst the crowds.

A Stroll Around the Hotel Panda, Yangon

2012-02-01T08:14:00.001+08:00

I do my best thinking in the classroom, that's where it always comes out. Always surprising, almost improvisational... thoughts smack me in the face and fly out of my mouth often when I least expect them.

It shouldn't be that way... not really. Not for someone like me... you see, I spend hours thinking about what to do and how to make the class more enjoyable or how to talk to the students... so when I go off track, derail myself a little... I'm the one most astonished.

It's a funny little therapy in a way... standing in front of students and baring your soul, telling them your mistakes, laughing at yourself to prove some point...

Well, that's if they're even listening... and yes, the thoughtful ones are. They're along for the ride too.

If I tell a story about riding atop trains in India just for the absolute joy of sending a muted scream into the wind or about how my first motorscooter ride in Greece ended with me crashing full-throttle into a tree...oh yes...in front of my best friends...they laugh and cringe and secretly light candles of prayer for me in their hearts...oh Hartenstein... just be careful, will ya?

Travel stories will do that, won't they? They're almost always morality plays. Tests of good vs. evil, of self-courage and exploration... they have grand themes and unwittingly naive and hopeful characters who come up covered in grime and yuck carrying a chest of treasure in the end... don't they?

At least this morning I did. Waking up early and walking around the markets outside of the Hotel Panda in Yangon. Believe me, using words like "dirty" and "dusty" don't really fit when describing Burma. There is no English adjective for the amount of fine sandy soot that permeates every aspect of this country.

And so I strapped on my boots and stepped outside and kicked it around a little... wandered through markets and watched men shaving in the gutter and women suckling babies in the dirt next to a blanket of tangerines and plantains laid out by metal scales. Packs of dogs roaming back and forth and the workers shoveling wet cement into the mortar holes of bricks. Just watch. Walk and watch and think and try to feel.

But it doesn't make sense, at least, not yet. I need more time. I need to get back into the classroom and stand in front of students and open a book and start reading aloud... then the thoughts of Burma will come... flooding back to me in recognizable rhythms and rants... the reflection of memory will align and I will understand.

But for today I just walk, fill my eyes with everything around me. Soak it in. It doesn't need to be clear now... doesn't need to make sense... because it will in time. I trust in that.

What is Yangon?

2012-01-31T20:50:00.001+08:00

“Vibrant and dynamic, sweaty and steamy, gasping at the future but trapped in the past, Yangon is at the cutting edge of Burmese culture and a fascinating introduction to Myanmar.

This despite the fact it was stripped of its status as a capital city in 2005, when the generals were spooked by an astrologer and decamped north to Nay Pyi Taw.

Today Yangon remains the biggest city and economic hub, but the government’s attention (and money) is elsewhere and infrastructure is really starting to creak.

Despite this, Yangon remains a hive of underground intellectual debate and the gateway for most international visitors.

The stunning Shwedagon Paya is the centerpiece, a gleaming golden stupa visible from all over town.

Closer to the waterfront, downtown Yangon is a warren of historic streets concealing some of the best British colonial-era architecture in the region.

A walk along the Strand or Pansodan St. is like strolling down Pall Mall- sans paint.

It’s diverse too… home to Burmese, Shan, Mon, Chinese, Indians, and Western expats.

So spend a couple of days soaking up the chaos, it will grow on you.” -Lonely Planet, Southeast Asia on a Shoestring, 15th edition, pg 544-45.

I don’t usually include whole passages from Lonely Planet on my blog, bug this one seemed to fit. Perhaps it is because Yangon’s first impression leads you a little speechless. It’s languid and decayed, brittle and vibrant, pieced together by a life that seems ghostlike now. People crowd the streets selling, hawking, throwing garbage, spitting, chatting, dropping their filth at their feet as if nothing could be more normal. I spent my first day just walking up and down the streets for hours and when I returned to my room, to whole body was caked in ancient dirt and grime. I felt I’d been washed in muck.

Arriving in Myanmar

2012-01-31T20:39:00.001+08:00

Finished the semester, got the grades in the book, and didn’t even really say farewell… SungJoo has the girls in Korea for the Lunar New Year’s and so I hoped a flight to Burma / Myanmar.

Midnight flight to Bangkok, slept on a bench in the new modern but overcrowded airport freezing under an air-conditioning vent, wrapped myself in the airplane blanket and shivered until dawn.

The flight to Yangon was quick, stewardesses in heavy rouge offering me wrapped sandwiches and stale coffee, arriving into the heat and squalor of one of the world’s most isolated capital cities.

I am traveling light, only my pack and a couple of throw away t-shirts, pair of shorts, hat, socks, umbrella, torch, first-aid kit, mosquito netting, toiletries, pocket knife, one pound bag of ground coffee, extra batteries, warm jacket to act as a pillow, trusted boots, flip-flops, Lonely Planet SE Asia, camera, Ziploc of adaptors and extension cords, jar of peanut butter, sketchbook, ziplock of pastels, hard ziplock of documents, day pack, and rolled up jeans.

I’m ready. I’m seasoned. I’ve been on the road for years. There is nothing Burma has that I can’t handle. At least I thought…

At the airport queue the passengers stand ready to have their visa stamped. There are well shopped Germans in their beige travel vests, and unprepared Chinese women in high heeled shoes, arguing Frenchmen in their groups, and there are other travelers. Neru Indians in white caps, scarved Muslim men stroking their beards, and the Burmese men in their longshin skirts wrapped tightly around their waist.

I pass through quickly, grab my bag and haggle for a taxi. I quickly learn that Burma is a county that has no internet, accepts no credit cards, and is a cash only society. An array of smoking, red lipped betel nut chewing men with calculators in their hands surround me, pulling at me for a taxi. I pass them and walk through the parking lot to where the low class taxis are parked. Here there is no haggle. Here there is just get in and drive.

We pass through the dirty streets. Grime. Decay. Mud roads. Horse carts. Barefoot children playing in soot. Crumbled buildings. My children need to see this place. On the wide thoroughfare of Yangon, we detour toward the Panda Hotel. I’d made an online purchase for a single room, my own personal travel tradition of staying somewhere nice on the first night to get acclimated and find information from well meaning hotel staff members. It paid off.

Hotel check in and up to the room… nice hard bed, crisp sheets folded and tucked into wooden frames. The man carrying my luggage wouldn’t accept my dollar bill as tip. He said it was too old, so I let it go

Open the curtain to look out over the city hustling and bustling beneath me. A thin layer of dust has already settled onto the back of my neck and coats my glasses. Just the drive from the airport and I am asthmatic , my throat scratchy. I stand back from the curtain and strip, pull off all my clothes and stand naked in the room looking out high over the city. Time to head out and explore. Time to see what adventure and trouble I can find. Time to see Yangon.

Backpacking through Burma

2012-01-21T00:51:00.000+08:00

Hey Everybody, I'm backpacking through Burma / Myanmar and internet is spotty. I'll update as often as I can over the next two weeks...after that, if you don't hear from me... assume the worst. (That's a joke, Mom) Love you all. Keep Reading!
- Hartenstein

Object Lessons in the Adventures of Tom Sawyer in Asia

2012-01-17T16:22:00.001+08:00

“He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy well enough- and loathed him.” Pg. 13

I know I kick and screech like a mule here in Taiwan but the single truth is that I’ve got some amazing kids that surround me like a family. I know they are not my actual family, but I always think of them like adopted kids, and that makes all the difference. There’s Yuki who comes in every day to talk about The Beatles and baseball and likes showing me the inner workings of wristwatches, and Joy who forgot his homework and so copied word for word the pages out of the textbook and glued them into his notes because it was the right thing to do, his mom is a teacher upstairs and it shows. There’s Edison in his little round glasses drowning me in questions, and Tiffany, who is leaving for Canada, and who I wrote the part of Mario Anthony in our Julius Scissorhands for her
I make it a point to say that yes, Aunt Polly may whack Tom across the temple with a thimble, but she loves him so.

“Tom appeared on the side-walk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him…” pg. 18

These kids work so hard and never complain. There is the school curriculum and then the national curriculum and then my own curriculum that I force them to do… why? And this is my way of conning them toward greatness…I say, “if I ask you to write a sentence, then you write me a two… and if I ask for a three to five sentence paragraph you write me seven…why?”
And all the kids groan: “Because we’re the best students in the school.”
That’s right.
It’s a confidence game, I know. And if one kids wants to stop class to show me the acorn he found outside, or another a piece of silk from the hem of a dress or how another found a brass door knocker outside…well… then we stop class to talk about it, don’t we?

“As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden- a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long tails, white summer frock, and embroidered pantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart…” pg. 26

I tell the kids that someday they will grow up and fall in love. All the stories we read about have romance… and they hew and haw and fall out of their chairs in disgust at the mere thought… but others sit very still and listen. They stop passing notes and gazing out the window because finally, school is useful. I tell them the language of men and women… how sometimes we say the same things but in different ways and words…how Tom makes Becky cry because of his previous engagement to Amy, and feeling so low down, he puts his prize possession in her hand, parting with his favorite slimy green toad. Becky shrieks and runs away, leaving Tom bedazzled and perplexed, and wanting her even more.

“’Now, I know you’ll tell me,’ said the lady. ‘The names of the first two disciples were---‘
‘David and Goliath!’” pg. 41

This is maybe my favorite scene in the book, how Tom trades bullfrogs and dead rats swinging by their tail on a stick for the yellow Bible tickets…anything to get close to Becky Thatcher, who is being introduced with her family to the church that day. Tom thinks, if he can just make them believe that he’s a good and earnest and holy boy, then maybe…well, maybe he’s got a shot.
It’s a lesson my students learn all the time. How they are trapped in these young bodies… hormones out of control, post-puberty jumping out of their skin. The ickiness of peach fuzz on boy’s upper lips and the awkwardness of young girls asking girl after girl after girl and then finally heading to the lavatory carrying small handbags in twos.
I try to tell them… you’ll figure it out, your body and your emotions…you will, but it just takes time. And just like Tom learns he can’t steal his way into heaven, you will find that you can’t steal yourself through middle school. You just have to take your lumps, let yourself be purged clean.

“Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun leveled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. Quick! Something must be done! Done in a flash too!
…He sprang to his feet and shouted: ‘I done it!’” pg. 148-49

I see these teachers beat the kids. Believe me, there are some sadistic maniacs in this school and country. Glaring. Carrying sticks. Making kids stand for hours with their nose in the corner. Hurling insults. Isolating kids. Breaking them…
But there are also good teachers here. Those that use soft voices. Who sit and drink tea with young people and try to know them outside of school. It’s not easy for Taiwanese teachers to do this, it pushes them outside their normal abilities, but I see some adapting, challenging themselves, and changing.
But as always, what I most love are the students. Standing up for each other, helping one another finish assignments. I see them learning how to be friends, and that is very rewarding.

“Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle, and lawless, and vulgar, and bad- and because all their children admired him so…” pg. 51

It’s a private school and there are a lot of rich, privileged kids. Black Mercedes dropping off at the ‘kiss and go.’ Parents who corner their children to give up a name, any name as a scapegoat… my name, many times… But there are also the kids whose parents drive the motor scooters wrapped in sweaters and shawls and facemasks. Kids whose dad owns the machine shop and whose mother works in the bakery.
I love those kids the most.
I know that Huck is a miscreant, a dirty, dead-cat lugging racist, son of the town drunk. But in my years as a teacher, I’ve met so many of these kids who just didn’t know any better, and the only thing that saved them was a heart of gold. I see you. Even if no one else does.

“Tom’s mind was made up now. He was gloomy and desperate. He was a forsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him… so he consented to be a pirate…” pg. 99-100

The biggest problem for my students, I think is that there is no escape for them. They have no place to run to, be free in, to play pretend. I think that’s why so many of them get lost in anime and ‘cos play’ and video games. They need time to walk the plank and dig for buried treasure.
I try to teach them about escape and guilt. How they are both important to feel and experience. That people need to get away, live their life and follow their dreams, but it is also important to know when it is time to come home. Tom knows that, running off to the island but then returning to kiss Aunt Polly at night when he misses her most. We need both: run and come home, always these two.

“’As the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell, Injun Joe jumped with the knife and-‘ Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, fled his way through all opposers, and was gone!” pg. 168

Kids keep secrets all the time. The good teachers, know when to let secrets stay buried and when they need to be surfaced. I’ve kept so many kid secrets over the years, damaging ones, ones that would crush them, and kids have kept secrets of mine. You see, sometimes you have to just tell the truth, and sometimes telling a lie is the only way to protect what is real.
But in the case of Tom and Huck, it’s not the secret they keep that will set Muff Potter free, it’s that the whole town keeps a secret that no one is willing to talk about… it’s written in the character of the man-child called Jim.

“At last Becky’s frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and friends there, and the comfortable beds, and above all, the light!” pg. 218

Setting in Tom Sawyer is always talked about. People who have visited Hannibal Missouri know what I’m talking about. White picket fences and boys in straw hats, little girls in curls singing songs on their way to church, Twain tries to capture the innocence of idealism before the murder and rage of the Civil War. But lurking underneath, always boiling to the surface, is evil… and Tom and Becky find that in the cave… Tom and Huck find that in Injun Joe in the abandoned house too. Always there, waiting to strike.

“’Huck don’t need it. Huck’s rich!’” pg. 240

What an ending! What kid wouldn’t love to find buried treasure and be hailed a hero? Well, may all our children be carried off the field on the shoulders of their hometown, at least once. May we all find redemption, somehow, I hope.

Tom Sawyer Homework Reading Quiz One

2012-01-17T06:15:00.000+08:00

1. How does Tom trick his friends into helping him whitewash the fence?
a. He offers them cake.
b. He promises to go swimming with them later.
c. He tells them Aunt Polly wants their help.
d. He convinces them the job is fun.

2. After the whitewash scene, what can be concluded that Tom learns about work?

3. Why is Becky Thatcher angry about Amy Lawrence?
a. Because Amy is very pretty and Becky is jealous.
b. Because Amy spread evil rumors about Becky.
c. Because Tom was engaged to be married to Amy first.
d. Because Tom gave the brass door knocker to Amy.

4. After breaking up with Amy and chasing after Becky, who acts deceitfully to him, what can be concluded about what Tom learns from love?

5. What does Tom do to win a Bible in Sunday School?
a. He memories 2,000 Bible Verses.
b. He takes the blame for someone else’s misdeed.
c. He trades the other children for their tickets.
d. He testifies at Muff Potter’s trial.

6. What is ironic about Tom trying to “steal his way” into Heaven by lying to get a Bible?

7. What does Becky Thatcher write on her chalkboard after Tom takes the blame in class?
a. I love you.
b. Meet me later, Baby.
c. Let’s complain about the teacher and get him fired.
d. How could you be so noble?

8. What does Tom learn about education after his experience in the school with Mr. Dobbins?

9. What is Tom’s most prized possession that he gives to Becky Thatcher?
a. A brass door knocker.
b. A dead cat.
c. A half-eaten apple.
d. A slimy toad.

10. What does Tom learn about men and women after his exchange with Becky, where he gives her his prized possession and she runs away crying?

11. What does Huck Finn do outside Tom’s window to call him for their midnight adventures?
a. Barks like a dog.
b. Crows like a rooster.
c. Meows like a cat.
d. Hoots like an owl.

12. Why do Tom and Huck first go to the graveyard?
a. To dig up a body.
b. To charm away warts with a dead cat.
c. To dig for buried treasure.
d. To look for ghosts.

13. Who is Huck Finn and what does he represent in the novel?

Two Letters of Rec and One Quick Edit

2012-01-16T15:35:00.000+08:00

I was asked this morning to write a quick letter of recommendation for a student and my thoughts quickly ran away with themselves. After submitting, I was gently reminded that an edit was needed. I couldn’t have agreed more. See for yourself.

To: The Paris International Youth Summit on Leadership,
This letter is to recommend my student Suzie Cho for entry into your Youth Summit. Suzie is a 7th grade student in my Literature and Writing class, and I have known her for one semester. In this short time, I feel I can write an accurate and meaningful evaluation of her talents and gifts.
Suzie is a very creative, thoughtful, and dedicated student. Whatever the academic task, she seeks to personalize it through artistic expression. Whether it is writing an essay, creating a poster, organizing a personal dictionary, taking notes in class, or completing a critical thinking puzzle, Suzie shows flair, interpretive design, and personal touch.
On examinations Suzie is well prepared and prone to answer more than is asked of her. On oral presentations, she is careful and insightful. Furthermore, Suzie’s classroom behavior is impeccable. All of these things combine to make a perfect candidate to represent her school, city, and country in any kind of environment.

(This part was edited out)
Yet perhaps the most important reason that Suzie should be considered for this Youth Summit is that she would benefit greatly from it. Leadership is not a strong subject for many Taiwanese students. They curse each other publically, create divisions based on petty disagreements, they don’t foster trust, don’t offer support, and are trained from an early age that success means being number one, and everything else is failure. I believe Suzie has the traits to be a new kind of Taiwanese student. One that compassionately encourages others, who councils troubled peers, who speaks out against injustices and isn’t afraid to enact changes if necessary. I believe Suzie has that potential courage, but has never seen it in action.
To be honest, when I first heard about a Youth Summit that a Taiwanese student could attend, I was surprised. After three years teaching here, that should tell you something. I am honored to recommend Suzie for entry into your camp and believe she is just the kind of person, student, and future leader you are looking for.

(It was replaced with this)
Yet perhaps the most important reason that Suzie should be considered for this Youth Summit is that our school culture would benefit greatly from having someone with foreign experience. I am honored to recommend Jenny for entry into your camp and believe she is just the kind of person, student, and future leader you are looking for.

In the end… the school will select one candidate and ask the parent’s to pay for her trip completely. I just wish they’d ask me to chaperone… but I can say with some certainty that, they won’t.

Taiwan Election Syndrome

2012-01-15T17:46:00.002+08:00

Before I came to Taiwan, I’d seen chaotic and ridiculous scenes of Taiwanese senators and congressmen punching each other, throwing hissy fits, and basically threatening each other with Samurai swords, rakes, wiffle ball bats, and tasers. After being in Taiwan for three years, the adventures continue. As my students say, “It’s isn’t a Taiwanese election until somebody gets shot.”
With this in mind, please read the following article from the China Post about this weekend’s Presidential Election, and believe me, as impossible as it sounds, they are actually being serious.

Headline: Polls Play Hazard with Helath Clinic

On the eve of Taiwan’s presidential and legislative elections, “election syndrome” patients should get plenty of rest and keep calm to avoid aggravating their symptoms, doctors at a Taipei clinic said yesterday.

“Election Syndrome” refers to the physical or psychological issues developed by overzealous supporters of political candidates or people addicted to election coverage. Symptoms include sleeplessness or sore eyes from watching long hours of television coverage of the races, or body aches and bladder infections after attending campaign rallies.

Chiang Han-kuang, director of the psychiatric department at Shu-Tien Urology Ophthalmology Climic, said constant replays of election rallies on the news can easily provoke psychiatric patients and make it difficult for them to sleep or cause emotional ups and downs. Family members of patients with psychological disorders should turn the TV off, focus the patients’ attention on something else and spend time walking outdoors with them.

If patients experience serious problems that affect their daily lives, however, they should seek medical assistance immediately.

Clinic directors said every year many enthusiastic supporters suffer shoulder and neck aches from shouting slogans and waving flags at rallies. Sometimes people will endure the pain and refuse to see medical attention, requiring long-term rehabilitation. People are reminded while attending campaign events to go to the bathroom before heading out, because there are few bathrooms and rallies may involve walking several kilometers.

People who do not get enough rest the night before and hold in urine during such rallies may develop urine duct infections or bladder inflammation. People may also suffer sore eyes and headaches which will require hot packs and massage for their eyes.

It is also suggested that supporters could prevent eye fatigue syndrome by maintaining a regular daily schedule of TV viewing and refraining from watching TV alone in the dark.

So there you have it folks... sage advice from a ridiculous season of political ups and downs and things that go "Bang!" in the dark...and always remember,if you feel your television is actually talking to you, time to go outside and read a book, or at the very least, talk back.

Friday the 13th

2012-01-13T21:36:00.000+08:00

It’s freezing cold. Wind swirling inside cemented walls without insulation. The students shiver in mittens of wool underneath stocking caps as they fill their teacups from thermoses, the steam rising as they pour. Outside, rain is dropping in bucket sheets. Why are the windows of the classroom open? Open wide as I stand there in disbelief at thirty students huddled together. So I do the unthinkable, I walk over and slam the window shut!

Instantly the howling echoed rush of air ceases. Color returns to blue cheeks, and I nod. Then the door opens, and in enters the homeroom teacher in disgust, stepping right in front of me followed by the student who ratted me out. The homeroom teacher is a dwarf, a pockmarked brown-toothed woman of sixty, long retired from public service, working now at our private international school like a demigod, sneering at the foreign teachers in all our filth, barking at me in Chinese.

The rat-student explains.
“If you close the window, CO2 levels from student breath will rise, causing dizziness and nausea. That’s why we keep the windows open, to circulate air. You don’t know that?”
I look at this student in complete and utter profane absurdity.
“What the hell are they teaching you, man?”
The problem is, that’s not the most insane thing I’ve heard today.

During the middle of first period, while standing in front of my class talking about the upcoming Year of the Dragon celebration, the door of my classroom is opened and two men in hard hats enter. No knock. No excuse me. Just enter and begin setting up their ladder. They move quickly to the top windows where the shades have been rolled up. I want to tape student art for people on the street to notice as they pass. I’m ready to post as they enter, but suddenly the men roll down the blinds, scold something at me in Chinese, and leave, stomping off like pampered chimps.
“What did those dudes want?”
The students explained. “The UV light from outside is very dangerous. When it comes into the classroom it can cause temporary blindness, and may lead to more serious handicaps.”
“Light…? Through the class window…? Dangerous…?”
The students all nod and agree.
“Teacher, you don’t know that?”
No. I had no idea.

The other day I was awoken by moonlight. (Well, let’s face it, I am awoken every morning by an asthma attack. Sharp bolts of pain in my lungs, a compressed cinder-block of force crushing my chest. I cannot breath. It’s the air. This dirty city. This rancid disgusting polluted environment forcing me to ingest an emergency inhaler first thing each day… but after taking my inhaler… ) I couldn’t sleep because the moon was so bright, blaring into the room.
So I stepped outside and went to the roof of the apartment. Twenty-five floors above the city, with nothing around, I tried taking pictures of the moon. Glorious, grinning at me like a Cheshire Cat, when suddenly I became aware of the apartment guard approaching me. He has a bum leg which he drags behind him, frothing and seething in oddly polite grins. “No. No. No.” He calls out, approaching me and slapping my hand away. “Never point at the moon.”
“What? Come on, look at that sucker. It’s huge!”
He knocks my hand away again.
“Don’t you know, if you point at the moon, you’re ear will fall to the ground.”

The next morning the staff room, one of the teachers was talking about the upcoming New Year’s celebration (yes, not all the teachers here are backstabbing savages). How in Asia, red symbolizes power, riches, and luck. How the only color that defeats dragons is red, and anything this shade, even blood, means good fortune.
One of the funny things I’ve learned about Taiwan is about red and underwear. I was really surprised how many people I know who will be wearing red under their clothes on New Year’s Day. The streets are lined with bra and panty shops advertising specials on red undies. Even 7-eleven sells red brief shorts for men who want to add just a little bit of extra luck during card games over the holidays. I think it’s hilarious. I guess my only response to this is… I’ll be wearing tightie-redies too.

As the week ended and the Friday classes wore on, with finals next week and me trying desperately to add a little happiness to these kids lives, giving them art projects, movies, and taking them out to play basketball despite the school’s threats to have me fired if I continue… I spent a lot of time today talking about the number 13.
You see, Asians understand creepy numbers. Throughout this region, the number four, which sounds so similar to the word “death,” is never used in hospital floors, flight seats, or for special occasions. In fact, most elevators have use a diamond for number four, as if even pushing it could cause bodily harm.
But what’s up with the number 13?

To look at this you have to look at other superstitions. Breaking mirrors and black cats, passing under ladders and hats on the bed, umbrellas indoors and stepping on cracks, we’re full of them. Asians too: whistling at night calls ghosts and clipping fingernails at midnight means cutting time short with parents. Even talking about death causes panic. One time in class I mentioned how a student’s grandmother was older than dirt, and she started crying, fanning her face.
“Violet, what is it?”
“I want your words to pass me. If you talk about my grandmother, she will surely die.”

I told the students about the history of 13 today. How there are thirteen turns in a hangman’s noose and Jesus and the D’s make a baker’s dozen at the Last Supper. But there are more…cosmic things that cause one to pause. How there are years which contain thirteen full moons instead of twelve. On average thirty-seven years out of a century will contain thirteen, with sixty-seven holding the traditional twelve. I mean even those famous Mayans (and believe me, the reason their calendar abruptly stops in 2012 is that those guys ran out of paper…) ends with a thirteenth moon… or hence, an extra “12 Days of Christmas…”
Beware of Partriches in Pear Trees...

All I know is this. Tonight is a full moon. I have no idea what is going to happen, and tomorrow I am going to awake out of breath and reaching for my inhaler to save my life, once again…and the last words I will utter tonight before I drift off to sleep are…”Now I lay me down to bed…” Goodnight!

Rebekah and the Spelling Bee

2012-01-12T21:19:00.000+08:00

It's Finals Week here in Taiwan, which means the crunch of No. 2 pencil lead upon rice paper nationalized tests (No...Taiwanese teachers don't have to write curriculum at all... they just read it out of a book) unlike their foreign counter... wait, did I almost call myself a "counterpart"? That would denote me as being equal to a local staff member, and clearly I'm not. You know, we have our own foreign bathrooms, segregated to the back of the first floor lobby, but somebody busted the lock off conveniently...anyway...it's a stressful time, and I can't even find a place for a morning constitutional.

Add to that... my middle daughter Rebekah has been studying for months for her school's Spelling Bee. Yes, little Rebekah, bless her heart, is the ace of her kindergarten class. The other kids call her "The Teacher" because she makes them line up at the door and scolds them if they don't raise their hand before answering questions. We've been religiously studying this list of 100 vocab words for five months every night. Rebekah knows them backwards and forwards...even still, we had someone from the school call and make sure I was studying with her. I asked this lady, "What, do you think I'm not studying with my daughter? Do you call the Taiwanese parents to see if they are helping their children, or do you only bother the foreigners because we only know how to raise savages?" The administrator (oh, and by the way, I work in this school district) hung up the phone on me.

So imagine my surprise, when on the day of the Spelling Bee, after working through and studying this list of vocabulary the school provided, they proceeded to ask kids to spell words OFF the list...just random hard words... instead of "their" and "there" we got "grape" and "pineapple." I was in shock. Why would they do that? What sound logic is there to stress a kid out, have every teacher in the school approach my daughter and tell her she's going to win the Spelling Bee, make her cry the night before with all the stress... and then, at the last minute, change the words...? What in the world, Taiwan? You're killing me.

Somebodies and Nobodies

2012-01-09T23:47:00.003+08:00

This afternoon I was called into the administrator’s office and had it explained to me. For two hours this morning one of the Chinese homeroom teachers complained about me. She doesn’t like the way I teach, doesn’t understand my method, and can’t see the value in teaching stories out of books. She routinely asks the students for criticisms of my class and when they complain…like the time I made them write congratulation cards because they acted like horse’s asses after winning a tug-of-war, she reports to parents directly that I am being a negative influence. She picks students I have tried to work with and turned them against me, going to their parents and saying that I am being too critical of them… when in fact I am just trying to help. Finally, in a last attempt to discredit me, she is telling parents that I am too mean…that I don’t encourage the students enough… and I am not helping them enough for the national test…of which… I’ve never even seen or heard existed.

I find that the longer I spend in Taiwan, the more I feel like I’m slowly dying. I’ve been lied to, backstabbed, manipulated, and treated without a modicum of respect throughout a string of surgical attacks on my character. When I leave this place, and I will leave it, I will remember days like today, when other teachers came at me from all sides to take me down a notch, to make an example out of me, to set me straight, and to make me conform. I pity you to the lowest form of my human existence. You’ve taken a educator who simply wanted to serve and help others succeed and made him feel exactly as you are, worthless. You’re nothing. That’s what I’ll remember about you. That you are nothing.

Taichung Science Museum (台中科学博物馆)

2012-01-08T19:24:00.001+08:00

After a couple of yucky miserable days of rain and clouds and shivering in the office, I dragged my girls out into the sunshine to check out the awesome Taichung Science Museum.

Okay, for all of you that don't know about it, the Science Museum is awesome. First of all, they always have different events. This time around an interactive cartoon and comic display on th Year of the Dragon, a traveling Egyptian Mummy exhibit, and a seasonal display of ethnic aboriginal cultures due to the popularity of Sedig Bale, a pretty cool Taiwanese movie about ancient head hunters clashing with the Japanese 100 years ago. Prices are really cheap too: Adults 100 NT and kids under 6 are free!

But of course, everybody always comes for the dinosaurs, and as far as robotic T-Rexes go, this one is pretty good.

There are also replicas of all kinds of dinosaurs including a Mamouth Skull and Tusk upstairs.

And who wouldn't want to take a picture next to a stuffed Polar Bear, Platapus, Kodiac Bear, or Chimpanzee.

Something tells me Damien Hirst made his way through here once...

The Birth, Ageing, and Death section is pretty cool too.

They also have this ancient wooden Chinese section with an enomour water clock, suspension bridge, traditional village including creepy life-like models (with real hair and teeth) and these fun ships that are big enough to walk around.

Downstairs they have the Oceania section with tons of cool artifacts, tools, and masks. But don't take pictures... they've got the camera gestapo on high alert.

We ended the day grabbing some burgers and fries down the street, but not before checking out the Chinese gown display. I know, Taiwan really separates itself from China, but some things from the mainland still exist... and this is one of them. A cool day for all ages. So get out and enjoy the Taichung Science Museum.

Two Sweet Videos on Growing Old

2012-01-08T19:06:00.000+08:00

This is a video from the Taichung Science Museum...which is awesome, just a few seconds of your life flashing before your eyes. Enjoy!

I know, not to get too morbid on you... but here's some cool evolution of the Chinese langauge.

Who's Afraid of Dinosaurs?

2012-01-08T12:22:00.002+08:00

During yesterday's visit to the Taichung Science Museum, we all learned that Kinu is not a fan of robotic dinosaurs...can you blame her?

Burning Witches

2012-01-07T22:26:00.001+08:00

The day begins and I am standing at the window tracing white paper snowflakes taped to the glass of my classroom, the infinite crystalline dimensions are frozen in time. As a boy, snow days were like small gifts from heaven, yet there is nothing but heat here in Taiwan. Even in December, gas rises off the asphalt into the sweltering tropical air and swirls around, suffocating the sky.

Here are the facts. Peter wrote the 10th grade lit test. He and I talked it over first, our desks are like two giant hippos sunning themselves in the river. We discussed it and he wrote it and I said it was okay.
Then the new guy vetoes it, saying his students couldn’t possibly pass. It’s too hard, too analytical, too complex, he says whoever heard of questions like: “Explain the cultural importance of dialect in Twain’s depiction of slaves,” and “What’s the significance of hearing negro spirituals rather than just reading the lyrics on the page?”
The new guy just furrows his eyebrows, “I mean seriously, what Asian kid can answer these questions?”

The new guy’s name is Jackson, a Taiwanese-American, USC grad math teacher standing in a Lit class without a credential or clue, telling that if his students fail he will look like a fool and get fired. Better just to give them a multiple choice vocabulary test, something they can memorize and pass. Jackson just got married, has a son on the way and needs to ensure a teaching contract for the fall. Our International School is private and the parents demand perfect scores.

The real problem Jackson has is with The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, a complicated story with multi-dimensional characters and impossible vernacular, even for mainstream kids. I push an abridged version that is controversial, but essential for our American Lit series.
Jackson says, “Why are we even studying Hawthorne? He is outdated and forgotten. I mean, whoever heard of stitching a red letter A on someone’s chest who’s committed adultery? You think Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton would stand for that? Their lawyers would get them off so fast and coutner-sue YOU for defamation! We should be teaching the kids Stephenie Meyer and Dan Browne. That’s who they want to read.”

I try to explain, saying the deeper you get into Hawthorne, you realize that it’s about the personification of evil. Nobody ever talks about evil anymore. We’ve become too modernized, too sensitive, too rational, too pluralistic. We see the world through prisms of other people’s perspectives. We’re taught to value the vantages of others so much we’re unable to get to the root causes of right and wrong, rationalizing there is no evil because one man’s sin is another man’s pleasure, one man’s pain is another man’s act of random kindness gone accidently wrong.

The next day in class I am standing by the window touching snowflakes while the students settle in their desks. The door opens on the side and Jackson takes a seat in the back row, accompanied by two other administrators and the head of the parent association.
I walk to the front of the class and begin, reading a passage where Hester, the heroine, confronts Pastor Dimsdale about the child he fathered. Putting the book down, I tell the students, “What needs to always be remembered about Hawthorne, is that he was born and raised in Salem, and you know what that means?”
I see my students turn to one another and nod.
“That means his great grandfather, John Hathorne, presided as judge over the Salem Witch Trials that hung 19 innocent girls of witchcraft.”
I walk through the aisles and pause in the middle of the class.
“Growing up in Salem had a profound effect on Hawthorne. He even added the letter W to his name to distance himself. He believed the world was damned, that the cruelty ran in his veins. That man, in his essence was … EVIL!”
I scream the last part making half the class gasp and fall out of their chairs.
“The point is students… nobody believes in damnation anymore. We’ve convinced ourselves that we are somehow so special that when we die, we get off Scot-Free. The question you have to ask is, could you be wrong?”

After class Jackson meets me at the podium.
“It’s an interesting argument, but doesn’t hold water. Nobody believes in absolutes anymore. There’s only one side exerting power over another. “
“Well,” I smiled. “I don’t need my arguments to hold water…”
He interrupted me, “That’s why we’re canceling your 10th grade test, I’ve already spoken to the school administrators. You’ll need to write it again, this time, the test should be entirely multiple-choice vocabulary.”
I laughed. “I’m not changing the test, Jackson. I teach these kids to think, to express themselves, not to just memorize dates and facts.”
“We’ll see about that…” He scoffed, and we stood there with both of our arms across our chests until all the students trickled out of the room.

The next day Jackson went to the school principal and ratted Peter and I out, fabricating a story that we had been giving students the answers on tests. He brought in evidence, digging for hours into old tests files of former students and displaying their work up on a cork board like some secret CIA sting. “See, they are giving students a discussion question, showing them multiple ways to answer, and then giving the students the same question on the test. That’s cheating! Cheating!”

Jackson ordered current students to go into the principal’s office where he interrogated them.
“What does Teacher Brian do in class? Does he teach the curriculum or spend time doing other things like discussion and analysis?” He even threatened students with demerits on their Honor Card if they lied. “Teacher Brian spends too much time having fun, yes? In telling stories, yes? In asking student opinions, yes? What good is asking an opinion, he should be teaching the curriculum instead, yes?”

When the meetings were over and Jackson came out of the office with the administrators, Peter and I were standing there, burned to a crisp. We were told the test had already been changed and our names stricken from it. We were to stick to the curriculum in the future and give up spending valuable class time on rantings and ravings. The administrators left, smiling. It had been a useful meeting. Everyone was back on the same page.
“Rule number one,” Jackson said as his passed us toward the elevator, “cover your ass.” I turned as he stepped inside, hit the button and the doors closed, watched as he went down.

An Ode to Working with Kenneth

2012-01-05T12:28:00.000+08:00

Kenneth comes up to me at the break and asks about a movie he wants to show in class. “Have you ever heard of Lord of the Flies?" He wants to know if it’s age appropriate. “Because we’ve been talking about economics and politics, you know?”
Brian: Kenneth, do you know what Lord of the Flies is about?
Kenneth: No, I was just reading on the internet and it said the movie was a must see.

Kenneth is a white American male. Age 37, woefully out of shape with an enormous bloated belly he hides beneath button-up short sleeve plaid shirts he constantly sweats through, tucked into pleated beige trousers. A music theory major, this is his first job teaching. He is the replacement for Drunk Sheryl who three months ago abruptly stopped showing up for work.
Kenneth: Brian, I’m going to be subbing one of your classes tomorrow while your daughter…Shee-Anne…am I pronouncing her name correctly Shee-Anne… is in the hospital?
Brian: Yeah, the class is Nine A-Two.
Kenneth: I’m sorry.
Brian: That’s the class name. They’re 9th graders meeting in Room A-2
Kenneth: 9A… 9A-2?
Brian: …
Kenneth: Oh, like 9th grade and it’s room 2? I got it, I was confused because you didn't say 'dash.'

I’m sitting at my desk when Kenneth rushes into the office.
Kenneth: Hey Brian, would you look at this Social Studies test I wrote.
Brian: Ummm… yeah, sure.
Kenneth: I think it’s too long. There are seven minutes left in class and they all haven’t finished the last page.
Brian: You mean, you left them in the middle of the test to come into the office to ask me if I thought the test was too long?
Kenneth: Yeah, you taught the class last year, so I thought…
Brian: Who’s watching your students take the test.
Kenneth: (A look of mortifying shock comes over his face) Oh my God! (He runs out of the room)

Kenneth: I just realized that Paul’s students are in the same room as my students… should I answer their questions about the test or should I let Paul answer them?
Brian: You are the writer of the test.
Kenneth: So it’s okay if I talk to them.
Brian: Yes
Kenneth: And will they know who I am? Should I introduce myself?
Brian: I think they will know.
Kenneth: Because I’ve never met them before, should Paul introduce me?
Brian: No, I think they will understand.
Kenneth: I also have 9th graders, should I go to their room too, even if I didn’t write the test?
Brian: Yes
Kenneth: Will they be in the same homeroom?
Brian: Yes.
Kenneth: Will that be a problem if I start speaking while the other students are taking a test.
Brian: Does it matter?
Kenneth: Now, will the students have the test or do I need to go downstairs to get it?
Brian: You’re giving me a headache.
Kenneth: Do I need to pass it out to them?
Brian: Please just stop talking.
Kenneth: And will I have to collect them afterward?
Brian: I am going to kill myself.
Kenneth: Oh, wow! I am so busy.

I walked into the bathroom today and there, standing bare ass naked at the long line of urinals, was Kenneth, beige pants dropped around his ankles, white tube socks up to his knee, humming with his hands on his hips… peeing away.

Kenneth: (Holds up a box) Brian, is this supposed to be here?
Brian: I don’t know.
Kenneth: Is it yours?
Brian: No, it’s the school’s property.
Kenneth: What shall we do with it?
Brian: I couldn’t give a flying psychotic…
Kenneth: Because there are still some pieces inside.
Brian: …
Kenneth: Maybe I should just leave it there?
Brian: …
Kenneth: Or should I put it in the garbage?
Brian: ….
Kenneth: Do you think someone will want it?
Brian: I don’t want it.
Kenneth: Because I don’t want to throw it away and then have someone ask for it.
Brian: …
Kenneth: So many decisions…

Kenneth: Brian, you’re a grammar guru… can I say two gerunds in a row, like, ‘I am practicing running,’ or ‘he is continuing shooting…’ is that okay?

Kenneth: (Arriving 15 minutes late to the meeting) Hi everybody, sorry I am late. I just can’t get to sleep on time… I lay in bed and look at the ceiling and just think…I think I’m having problems falling asleep. Is that sleep apnea? I just can’t sleep. Maybe that’s called insomnia. I always get those confused. What is it called when you can’t sleep? I should try hypnosis. Has anyone here ever tried that? Oh, this is a funny story, I once knew this farmer who had a prized pig…oh, you’re going to laugh at this one, and the pig thought it was a chicken… I’m not kidding you…so this farmer, he decided to hypnotize his pig and…oh this is so funny, you won’t believe what happened…

Awesome Christmas Gifts

2012-01-04T14:56:00.006+08:00

Fun with paper, huh? Take a look at these awesome Christmas gifts. Here's an Odyssey Pop Up Book for Rebekah. Oh yes, thost are Sirens and Scylla / Charibdis!

And check out this sweet pop up Cyclopes and Odysseus under the giant ram. Rebekah loves the Odyssey and we sit each night going through the story together. So fun!

Kinu got these 3D glasses from her teacher, perfect for Puss in Boots...which rocked!

But perhaps the best gift was this biology book with pop out skeleton for the girls... they are fascinated with the skeletal and nervous system. Bedtime stories just got a whole lot more fun.

Wacky English!

2012-01-03T14:03:00.000+08:00

It's not so much them having to say, "No Betelnut," what they really mean is, "Please don't spit the red gunky juice and pits all over the floor of public buildings." Thanks, we got it.

I wonder what one has to do to be in the Sausage Family? Since 1985?

This one speaks for itself.

I watched these women for about ten minutes try to spell out a human word on New Year's Day. I still have no idea what they were trying to say.

We've all met our fair share, that's for sure.

This was a group giving out "Free Hugs" on Christmas Day. They were obviously on drugs.

I just like how rabbits, hamsters, baby turtles and little birds constitute "Exotic" animals.

Unfortunately this is my preferred method of public toilet use.

Me and Tom Waits in the back of a cab, midnight on New Year’s, 2012

2012-01-02T22:10:00.000+08:00

“Let me fall out the window with confetti in my hair, deal out jacks or better on a blanket by the stairs, I’ll tell you all my secrets but I’ll lie about my past, so send me off to bed forever more.” -Tango ‘Til They’re Sore by Tom Waits

The night was wild and we rode motor scooters out into the rice fields out on the edge of the city in the hum and glow of man-made light and I’m standing there, blowing my nose into a ripped t-shirt, bottles passed back and forth, and Manuel lays Kitty down in the dirt and Lester is throwing clods of rock and busted cement onto the roofs of farm houses, the madness of this year still bearing its teeth on my neck.

“He’s got a wooden coat, this boy, and he’s never coming home.” -Big Black Mariah by Tom Waits

There’s sirens. These young kids scatter, and I start walking toward the oncoming cars staring into the flashing lights. Hand through the back of my hair, feel the sweat, glistening in the hollow darkness.

“Bloody fingers on a purple knife, flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass, I’m on the lawn with someone else’s wife, admire the view from up on top of the mast.” -Jockey Full of Bourbon by Tom Waits

My shoulder still hurts from where Tom socked me good. He won’t make it to the end of the night. Rough year after Maggie left him, up and took his son and split, opened some boutique in Taipei. He takes the train on weekends but the stress shut him down. He tells me about his varicose veins and diabetes in that thick Brooklyn accent, tells me he can do a hundred push-ups a day, works his arms like a trombone. When he dies, he tells me to watch his son, if you’re still here, he adds and laughs, but I’m looking in his eyes and not smiling. Old guy, what are you doing out with us tonight? What? They could ask the same question of me.

“Small time Napoleon shattered his knees, but he stays in the saddle for Rose, and all his disciples they shave in the gutter and gather what’s left of his clothes.” -Diamonds and Gold by Tom Waits

The cops are bought off easy. Play dumb. Simmer and play dumb. There’s a wad of bills wrapped in rubber bands tucked in my sock if I need to pay. They offer me a ride back into town, but I balk. Not riding in the back of a cop car, ever. Suit yourself, and I huff it the rest of the way down the mountain on foot.

“Tear the promise from my heart, tear my heart today, you have found another, and I must go away.” -Hang Down Your Head by Tom Waits

Abandoned. Ain’t no honor in thieves, what about merry revelers? The plan had been pretty simple, just ride. Turn off the headlights and ride blind up the winding mountain roads with the sheer drops and the hanging vines in that cold roaring air. Watch the fireworks from atop the city, what else you supposed to do on New Year’s Eve, Dick Clark?

“Mad as a hatter, you’re thin as a dime… sing me a rainbow, steal me a dream.” -Diamonds and Gold by Tom Waits

But you know Manny, he’s got that thing for this girl. They’re always running off to be alone and Lester is never to be trusted, and Bobby? Bobby’s thoughts on the subject are only if it’s better to live as a criminal and accept consequences or hump it out as a slave and live righteously impoverished. So I think, I’ll just ride with these boneheads for a night, just a night.

“I know your window and I know it’s late, I know your stairs and your doorway, I walk down your street and past your gate, I stand by the light at the four way.” -Downtown Train by Tom Waits

Now I’m laughing to myself walking along the side of the road, little hovel in the distance with the light on, little market with the sliding grate door. I’ll call a cab from there. I’m safe. Not the same for the others. I can still hear them talking about resolutions, about how this year will be different. How they’re gonna love harder, live fiercer, steal from the rich and give to themselves. Savage fools. Inside, the young mother lets me use her phone, an act of kindness, and I stand on the platform alone on the outskirts of nothing waiting for an engine to come carry me back.

“They have nothing that will ever capture your heart, they’re just thorns without the rose, be careful of them in the dark.” -Downtown Train by Tom Waits

Onto the highway now, I slip down deep into the back seat and rest my head against the glass. Fireworks shoot high up over the embankment and explode just next to my eyes. The brilliance of gunpowder, all bright and shiny, melting in hot plastic shards like busted hard candy in the dark sky. It’s midnight. The new year has begun, and I am racing back to everything I know and love and hope hasn't disappeared without me.

New Look Hartensteinabroad for 2012!

2012-01-02T14:24:00.000+08:00

Happy New Year Everyone! Sorry for the brief vacation. I would have hung a sign reading: Gone Fishin! But Blogger didn't give me the option. Please know that Hartensteinabroad is back and stronger than ever before. I've added a couple of changes and more to come. Hope you like the New Look!

Flickr Pics: Taiwan Autumn and Winter

2011-12-30T08:15:00.004+08:00

Hey Readers,
As 2011 closes out... here are the last batch of Flickr pics for the Autumn and Winter months in Taiwan. I wish you all a Happy New Year!

Life on the Mississippi

2011-12-28T14:32:00.005+08:00

“When I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my comrades in our village on the west bank of the Mississippi River. That was, to be a steamboatman.” -Mark Twain

There was this moment today, in between the breezes on the fifth floor balcony where I sip hot coffee from this porcelain mug my second daughter painted, between classes as the students pass, between lecture notes and the worn leather creases of my satchel, where I closed my eyes, held my breath against the wind, and remembered those days.
Out in the trees I would find you, between the crush of brown leaves beside the brook, hidden as the nightingale or the fawn, waiting for me in secret.
“We had transient ambitions of other sorts, but they were only transient. When the circus came and went, it left us all burning to become clowns; the first Negro minstrel show that ever came to our section left us all suffering t try that kind of life…” -Mark Twain

Introducing Samuel Langhorne Clemons, I show the students pictures of Hannibal Missouri, white picket fences and barefoot boys in straw hats shouldering fishing poles, houses with wood burning stoves and porches meant for corn cob pipes, the slave quarters out back and the faces of weeping blacks. I tell them that Clemons lived in between the words, full of confounded irony and stubborn wit, where self-deprecation was a moral vanity and whose loftiest ambition was to contradict itself, such is the universally accepted father of American Literature: Mark Twain, who said, “I am not an American, I am the American.”
“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.” -Mark Twain

There was a fire around the school yesterday. Off in the industrial park, a small temple and home caught ablaze sending black clouds and glowing sparks rolling past the windows in the twilight dusk. The boys acted exactly as they should, crying, "Fire! Fire!" and running off half-cocked and brazen in the direction of the burning smoke. I stood on my rooftop balcony and watched them race down the streets on their bicycles, some sprinting alongside until their legs gave out, until they blurred into the dark raging glow of the inferno toppling down onto the street.
How perfect it is to be a boy racing toward the fire. How it calls us. How we must see and know the danger for ourselves.
“These ambitions faded out, each in its turn; but the ambition to be a steamboatman always remained.” –Mark Twain

I joke with the students, I am sitting on a chair in the front of class reading from an old paperback, the kids sit above me on their desk tops. I do not fear their vantage, I see it as more of a protective shell. I tell them, Twain was not the first American to go abroad and write about it, but he is the first to bring America with him. Before, writers traveled to exotic places and described it as the center of the world, but Twain, no matter where he went, stood in the center of the American compass and saw it as home.
He made it possible for all of us, to be Americans abroad.
Out on the balcony in between class I am approached by this young girl Hannah. She reads this blog religiously, steals my books of the shelf, try as I might I can't be rid of the poor soul. Hannah tells me that she believes Twain wrote like an American so that he could stay close to the people he left behind. She asks, "Is that why you keep writing your blog, to keep those you love close, to always be there for them in some small way, even if they don't want you or need you anymore, to offer them a kind of protection, a kindred spirit when no one else is there?"
She made me laugh, this young girl did. In between the breezes on the balcony, in between my secret place in the high trees, she found me. I told her, "Yes, because that's my compass. I've always given myself away for free.

Brian Hartenstein Year in Pictures, 2011: Autumn & Winter

2011-12-28T07:41:00.002+08:00

The last remaining months of 2011 were mostly about sticking around home, teaching classes, and watching the girls grow up.
There were some exciting events, like the Lady Gaga concert and the Taichung Jazz Festival.
And Hartenstein continued doing his best in the classroom.
And out of the classroom, here flying the Panda Kite off the roof of the school.
Yes, Xian got sick, but she will get better and return to her usual bouncy fun self in no time.
And the upcoming 2012, The Year of the Dragon, I'm sure will hold some surprises as well. Thank you, and Happy New Year to you all.

Greatest Vid Ever: Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You

2011-12-27T23:51:00.002+08:00

Well, speaking of old photos and videos, this one comes out of the vault from Dec, 2009. We had first arrived in Taiwan, Rebekah is so little, and Kinu is just 2 years old riding around in a backpack through Sogo Department store when... one of the greatest 80's songs of all time comes on... you know what I'm talking about. Check out the little kids staring at me... awesome.

Brian Hartenstein Year in Photos, 2011 The Summer in Europe

2011-12-27T19:03:00.005+08:00

You can't go wrong taking your globe trotting with your kids, and this summer was awesome because we backpacked southern Europe. This has been my life's dream, and we're only getting started. Above, in Kotor Montenegro.
Mykonos Beach, after chasing windmills, Greece.
Harlequin masks in Venice, Italy
Acropolis, Athens Greece
Gondola ride, Venice Italy
Old Quarter, Split Croatia
Santorini, Greece
Bodrum Castle, Turkey
Roman Ruins, Itlay
Twilight in Venice with Xian. Italy

Brian Hartenstein Year in Photos: 2011 Spring

2011-12-27T14:28:00.003+08:00

Hi Readers, check out these photos from our Year in Review, April through May. Above, a little morning Buddhist Temple in Busan, Pomosa, South Korea.
Brian Hartenstein's novel, Me Gook, presented to one of the mysterious characters the book is based on. Busan, South Korea.
Hartenstein and his girls beside kimchi pots, Busan, South Korea
Korean Man Smoking, Nampodong, Busan South Korea
Chagalchi Market and Nampodong Side Streets, Busan, South Korea
Macau, Venetian Casino, China
The last days of the Taichung People's Park, Taichung, Taiwan

Brian Hartenstein Year in Photos 2011

2011-12-27T14:23:00.004+08:00

It was another great year of travel for Team Hartenstein. Check out these photos from January through March, 2011. Above, Wat Pho, Bangkok
Phi Phi Island, Thailand
Phuket Beach, Thailand
Thailand Souther Coast
Bangkok River Taxi
Taipei 101 Building, Taiwan
Dimsum Chefs, Taipei Taiwan

Happy Holidays 2011

2011-12-26T21:44:00.004+08:00

If there is one thing this holiday season has reminded me of, it's that you can't let it slip away without putting up a fight. Say what you need to say to the important people in your life, let them know how you really feel, spend the quality time you have. That's all that matters. Love boldly and often. Fall flat on your face for love. Happy Holidays Readers!

Ain't No Joy In Mudville -A Running Diary of Three Weeks in China Medical

2011-12-26T21:00:00.007+08:00

“The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play…” -Thayer

The following are journal entries from Xian’s three weeks as a patient trapped in China Medical University Hospital. My reason for publishing these pictures is to show how brave and awesome my daughter is and was during that time, but to also encourage parents to seek second and third opinions from doctors, to challenge medical authority, to do research on your own, and especially in Asia, to demand quality service from physicians.
“A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast…” -Thayer

(Day One, Afternoon) When she first entered the Emergency Room I thought it was routine, a bad cough at worse, prescribe some antibiotics and let’s get out of here. I had no idea she was suffering from a bacterial infection on her lung. I started racking my brain, she had been complaining about tightness in the chest, but I just thought that was asthma. The first night I just sat in the chair kicking myself, couldn’t we have caught this sooner.
“They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat….” -Thayer

(Day Two midnight) We move from the ER to the PICU by Volkswagen van, sandwiched together with other patients, the iv bag connected to a screaming infant is hanging from a bent rusted nail between my legs, Xian is behind me in the seat, her hand straining through the other bodies to hold onto my finger as we race through traffic.
“And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat…” -Thayer

(Day Five, Morning) We’ve just had a quick sit down with the doctor who has finally arrived. After battling with nurses in the PICU and sleeping on benches outside in the waiting area and looking at undecipherable x-rays, we finally see the doctor. Xian’s condition is very severe. Blocked breathing passages, intubation procedures, pig-tail surgeries, and fluid drainage. Further surgeries are discussed and a mortality rate is mentioned. The specialist is furious, she won’t take our questions. We want backup plans and contingencies and she just scowls. I ask her point blank, “Do you have children? You don’t? Well then what do you know about it?” The meeting ends, and I am escorted back to the waiting room.
"Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said." -Thayer

(Day 6, afternoon) We are still in the PICU, stranded outside behind the big pink metal door. Parents aren’t allowed to go inside. There is a little call box at the door and I hold the buzzer and plead to be allowed inside. An hour later a nurse arrives and explains I cannot enter because of fear of infection. The elevator door opens and a groaning man in surgical bed is pushed through the hall, all of his equipment, heart monitor, oxygen tank, iv bag, are hanging from the bed as two orderlies roll him down the hall. I turn and the door has been closed in my face. I stand back and take my place along the wall of filthy plastic chairs and wait.
"The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. " -Thayer

(Day 8, Morning) SungJoo has been amazing, I have to basically drag her from the hospital just to get a cup of coffee. She blames herself and she shouldn’t. To her credit, while all the other mothers take the doctor’s advice and sit quietly, she barges into the PICU and demands to see the attending physician. I thought they were going to call security. She has files upon files of questions for the doctor and demands the best treatment, it is the first time in a long time that I realized she is stronger than me, that I am not doing enough, that I need to be bolder, that I am failing my daughter.
"And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow." -Thayer

(Day 12, morning) I am standing by the window watching the first light come in over the city, Xian is laying fast asleep under blankets brought from home. I’d spent much of the night holding her hand as she winced in pain at the doctor’s brutal hands and reading her stories: We finished John Fitzgerald’s Me and My Little Brain, Louis Sacher’s Holes, and a number of American poems including her new favorite, Casey at the Bat, which she made me stand up and act out. She loved the part where Casey lets the first two pitches sail by but on the third, is poised for greatness. As I watch her, my brave little daughter looking back at me, I realize once again how much we need poetry in our life, something to keep us moving… sometimes words are all we have...
"Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light..." -Thayer

(Day 15, afternoon) Xian is feeling better and there is the beginnings of talk about going home. She only uses the respirator to sleep and there is a chest percussion instrument we must use to beat her chest and back to loosen up consolidated masses in her lungs. The nights are sleepless and hard. The nurses barge in saying nothing. They lead with needles and say nothing when Xian scowls. The doctors are brutal, using my 8 year old as a translator. I block them at the door, try to get answers. Nothing. I want out of here so bad.
"And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out." -Thayer

(Day 17, dawn) Trying to sleep, wake up with asthma attacks. The hallways are empty except for the screaming of little babies. There are cockroaches on the toilet and mold on the air-conditioning vents. Xian is awaken by the doctor who barges in the door and says we must go downstairs. I ask where, he doesn’t answer. I ask him again, and he stumbles…explains, ultra sound. Okay… as we step into the elevator, a nurse pushes a rolling incubator in beside us covered in a blanket. Inside there is a small red infant. Already we have seen two babies die. Both in the PICU: One had an enlarged heart, the other had brain surgery. My only memory of this is just seeing the doctors in white coats standing around the staring at the child connected to the machines by tubes.
In the elevator I take Xian’s hand, inside the incubator the baby is groaning and screaming out. The doors open and we hurry out. Into the ultra sound the doctor oils the machine and begins rubbing the cold handle against Xian’s ribs causing her to cry and squeeze my hand. No response from the doctor who begins labeling the screen: Heart, liver, lungs… this goes on for twenty minutes. When he is finished the two doctors leave the room and I am left to wipe Xian up, fasten her robe, and carry her back upstairs. The doctors say nothing to me. I am furious. I stop and tap the operator on the shoulder. I want him to explain. Tell me why you are writing notes on my daughter’s organs. Explain now. He scoffs.
Four hours later the lead doctor is in Xian’s room holding a clipboard between us with pictures. She says the consolidated mass in Xian’s lungs has gotten smaller and her white blood cell count is stabilizing. It is a numbers game now. I rest easy. It will be three more days before Xian can go home.
(Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer first appeared in William Randloph’s Hearts’ paper, the San Francisco Examiner in June of 1883.)

When we are released from the hospital I can’t tell you the amount of joy and relief we all felt. Toward the end, Xian was literally bouncing off the walls. There is still a lot of treatment left for her to finish, but it’s Christmas, and my daughter being home is all that matters. The thing is, no one ever imagines that this will happen to them. One minute you are planning vacations and buying stocking stuffers, the next minute you are standing in the ER ward listening to a doctor speak in Chinese about the fate of your child.
That night, as Xian was laying in bed, wrapped in blankets by the space heater, I started to read Casey at the Bat again, but she said she didn’t want it. Wasn’t there something new? Something I hadn’t read in ages? Of course there is sweetheart, of course.

China Medical University Hospital

2011-12-26T14:14:00.009+08:00

Now that's it's over, now that Xian is back home and the doctor visits do not involve stabbing needles from inept nurses in fake eye lashes poking holes, and doctors eating mayonaise sandwiches on break while my daughter is screaming for help.... I thought I would share some pictures of Xian's three weeks in the hospital.
It was a struggle. In the end, I have to say, "thanks," I mean, the technology and the doctor ability saved my daughter's life.
But I also believe they may have permanently damaged her.
Xian will have to speak to this herself, and she's getting to an age where she will soon be typing her own journals onto this blog, but the real pain inflicted from this hospital stay was not in the illness itself, but in the lack of any kind of suitable bedside manner.
My friend Paul was in the Taichung Hospital recently with a very serious malady, and he would speak in horror of nurses waking him up for meds by slapping his face and shoving needles into his skin multiple times until they found a correct vein.
I believed him at the time and just hoped I would never have to go through it.
But when Xian got sick, I knew we were in trouble.
And yes, we considered flying to Korea, or more dramatically, flying back to America if her conditioned worsened, but in the end... her little body toughed it out.
By the way, in checking out of the hospital, not one nurse said "goodbye."
Not one doctor stopped by to offer a "congratulation" or a pat on the back. NOT ONE!
So here's to you, China Medical University Staff... here's to your future.
Good luck, God Bless, and Good Riddance!

Merry Christmas to All!

2011-12-25T18:23:00.005+08:00

Well, we made it, home for Christmas! Gone are the breathing tubes and iv hoses, poking nurses, and callous doctors.
Gone is the hospital smell, the baby crying down at the end of the hall, the uncomfortable chairs, the harsh flourescent lights, and the stinky guest cafeteria at 2 a.m.
Gone are the shots and needles, the nurses twisting iv bags to make the fluid flush into Xian's veins faster so they can leave...
Doctors stepping into our hospital room and cringing because they have to use English, using my 8 year old as a translater instead.
And what has been replaced...? Why Christmas of course! Thank God, it's Christmas!
Never in my life have I needed ornaments and stockings, blinking lights and tinsel like I did this year.
I know around the world people are celebrating peace and goodwill, kids are tracking Santa on GPS, and soldiers are laying down their guns, I hope... for at least one day. Families are gathering and mothers are cooking, and at least for one day, here in Asia, students are given a nationalized test. But for me, in my little family, huddled in this room and around computer screens cheering into skype images... we're just so full of joy that Xian is healthy and able to be home.

Home For Christmas!

2011-12-25T18:04:00.003+08:00

It's the only thing that mattered, it's the only gift I needed or wanted... But Xian came home from the hospital today. Good thing... if you think those nurses and doctors were annoyed with me before, wait until I tried to fit the Christmas tree and gifts onto the elevator. She is doing better, able to get around on her own. Thank you all for your prayers and positive thoughts. We needed every last one. Merry Christmas, Everyone!

The Boy Who Stole My Daughter’s Snow Globe

2011-12-24T13:27:00.007+08:00

I always followed the news growing up. While most kids memorized breakfast cereal boxes and Saturday morning cartoons, I was running lists of Russian Czars and Apollo Missions in my head. I knew the American Presidents from Lincoln to Carter forward and back and could name all the capitol cities in Latin America. Essential information for a future leader of the French Underground Resistance / Antarctic Explorer / Stagecoach Driver, but pretty useless for an 8 year old under strict orders from his mother to drink a warm glass of Metamucil each morning. While most boys my age were pummeling each other with dodge balls and trying to stick their tongues on frozen metal light poles, I would stand off to the side and imagine I were talking to Charles Lindberg on the radio during his Trans-Atlantic flight, or that I was an Aztec warrior watching the first white masted ships full of Conquistadors land on my shore. Great events in history were hyper-real to me. The lines of yesterday’s news and today’s fantasy were but a daydream away.
My Christmas lists showed signs of this delusion. Pity my poor mother who had to field boyhood desires for sarcophagus remains or Australopithecus skulls mixed with fantastic hopes for an actual light saber or to be dipped in carbonate like some frozen Han Solo Magic Shell ice cream cone. But gifts meant things back then. They were hope. Yes, childish and improbable, but full of innocent wonder and light.
I’m a high school teacher now, camped out in life under the stars just a few years past where my boyhood innocence ended. Most days I’m very quietly content to just open a beat-up and dog eared paperback and stand in front of confused and befuddled faces of youth and read to them aloud about the wrath of Achilles or the private thoughts of Frederick Douglas. I whisper something different in each kid’s ear. Margaret I tell to keep doodling, they’re good. Miriam I say to share the spotlight, that we’re judged not on our greatness but how great we make others. I ask Wayne to keep raising his hand every time our class discussion reminds him of a story he once read, and for Casey, well for Casey, I just tell her to keep looking out the window and daydream the year away.
These are the gifts I give in my class. I know, sounds corny, huh? But I believe in what I’m doing more than the doubt of others.
It’s hard to speak to young Asian people. The boys grow up wanting to be background dancers. They order hip hop clothes out of catalogues with Justin Beiber on the cover, trucker hats they wear perched sideways on their perfectly coiffed hair, and the girls readily admit that Lady Gaga is the most important person in the world. They see nothing outside of what is pre-packaged and sold to them wholesale.
I ask them who is number 2 and they can’t give me a name, or then one brave student will say Barak Obama or Nelson Mandela and then another will say Taiwanese golfer Yani Tseng or South Korean figure skater Kim Yu Na, and I ask them really? Really, a golfer and a skater, the most important people alive?
Oh… they all gasp, the most important person alive… why didn’t you say so… they all nod and look at each other … that’s Steve Jobs.
This year I’ve done something terribly insane and begun to teach 7th graders. I had no choice really. I thought, I’ll show them wonder… possibility… I’ll read to them about Davy Crocket at the Alamo and give them Paul Bunyan’s swinging ax. I’ll take them outside to plant trees like Johnny Appleseed and play a marathon nine month long Monopoly game. Something to make them love school, to make them see it’s not all cleaning the hallways with toothbrushes and standing with your nose in the corner when you make a mistake.
But it’s been a struggle.
The boys are savages
Jim is this bucktoothed, messy haired gangly scarecrow of a burping, sneezing, sleeve nose blowing, catastrophe. His favorite class antic is to fart loudly when I am mid-sentence and then pretend the explosion in his pants was so great that he has fallen out of his chair.
That’s a tough act to follow, but Paul gives it his best shot. Paul is a pants dropper, a full on “moon-shiner.” The first time he dropped his pants in front of me was right before the bell rang at the end of the day, 5:15 in the evening (we start at 7:00 a.m.) and the kids don’t go home until 9 p.m. I put Paul in a semi-headlock and took him down to the office where he was sufficiently punished: Nose in the corner for twenty minutes and a demerit on his honor card. The second time it happened resulted in a long scolding by me in the hallway. The third time it happened and I spoke very earnestly to his parents in the staff room who assured me it would never happen again.
You see, both Jim and Paul are like a lot of these 7th grade boys, they have excuses. Jim’s father died late last summer and Paul was diagnosed with ADHD. Didn’t I understand? The parents have just decided to give them everything, this would ease their suffering? Eventually their minds would mature, I was told. All boys grow up, they insisted. They will look back on these moments with a great sense of boyhood charm.
Enter into this realm Vincent.
Vincent is like a lot of Taiwanese boys, obsessed with these tiny plastic trays of precise pieces that once assembled make a miniature sized Transformer. Taiwanese boys love Transformers. Breast plates and arm bands and tiny snap-together wings. He pulls them out of his desk during break and flies them through the air and has them climb and fight atop his desk. I watch him making explosion spit sounds with his lips, the white froth collecting in the corners of his puffy mouth, watch his chubby little fingers meticulously rubbing over each interlocking piece in perverse ecstasy.
In fact, the only thing that can detour Vincent’s concentration away from his Transformer toys are images of Japanese girl robots on other student’s PDA’s. Yes, scantily-clad cartoons of big eyed computer animated girls standing in front of weather maps reading temperatures is enough to give young Vincent a panic attack. He rolls on the floor howling. He hops up and down like a hound dog in heat. He takes his pillow out of his desk, the satin cushion with the Sailor Moon girl printed on the cover, and hugs it and kisses it and holds it close to his face.
It’s revolting.
While the other girls in class stare at the floor in despair, Vincent introduces his transformers to his pillow, Jim belches so loudly the pictures on the walls blow away, and Paul drops his pants and dances around the room.
The school’s new principle asks me how the class is going. He’s a sullen ex-homeroom teacher, a few years younger than me, who has a collection of different Cookie Monster t-shirts he wears to work and a collection of McDonald’s Happy Meal toys proudly displayed on his desk.
I just smile and give him the thumbs up, “Going great!”
It’s a lie, of course. It’s not going great. My oldest daughter has been in the hospital for the last three weeks, complications from severe pneumonia which left infected tissue and bacteria on her lung. We’ve been through the ER and PICU and admitted to the General Ward only to return to the ER and PICU for additional treatment. My daughter’s arms look like an outbreak of measles from all the needle holes.
But the saving grace is it’s late December, and that means, can she come home for Christmas?
It also means Christmas parties at school. I play Christmas Carol Karaoke and Pin the Beard on Santa, but my favorite game is the White Elephant Gift Exchange, where each kid brings a wrapped gift, draws a number, and selects a random treasure from the pot. Now, when your number is pulled, you can take a mystery gift, or you can “steal” an awesome gift somebody has already opened.
This year I played it with all my classes, including my 7th graders. It’s a good chance to talk about being a family, about how giving is better than receiving, about the real spirit of Christmas.
And wouldn’t you know it my kids responded. In years past there was disappointment. The first year I got three white tube socks, and last year I got a used Chinese paperback love story. Not really thoughtful gifts. So when this year I noticed that all the students got together and bought a brilliant little snow globe with glowing tree inside that “somehow” they all managed “not” to pick until it was my turn… and then all yelled surprise afterward and told me to give it to my daughter in the hospital… I was very touched. Perhaps, all these little speeches I’ve been giving my students about how to love and live were paying off.
Then it was Vincent’s turn.
And wouldn’t you know it. He chose to take the snow globe. My daughter’s snow globe. Walked right up and snatched it from my hands. What could I say? While all the other students booed and rolled their eyes and cursed at him in Chinese. I smiled and watched him lay the beautiful glass ornament on his desk and turn the music crank while the little Christmas tree spun in circles and the white flakes fell inside the happy sphere.
As the bell sounded I wished the students Merry Christmas, they have Saturday school on Christmas Eve, so most were disappointed, and I grabbed a taxi across town back to the hospital. We’re meeting the doctor tonight and he will decide if we can go home or not.
When I reach the room Xian is waiting, wide eyed and smiling, connected by tubes, one through her wrist, the other through her nose. I get on the bed next to her and begin to whisper. We’re on a magical ship, I explain. Perhaps it is Magellan sailing around the world or Perry’s steamer crashing through the ice.
I hold her tight, hanging on to dear life. I don't tell her I stopped off at the Stationary Store on the way there and have a present in my satchel, an identical snow globe like the one Vincent is now introducing to his pillow. No, we're off on the adventure of a lifetime sailing through the night sky with Kris Kringle, hospital bedsheets to warm us, stacked pillows in the back as gifts, tubes strung around our hands as reins. Onward now! Onward we go together.

Thanks, Everyone

2011-12-23T23:45:00.004+08:00

Well... I just wanted to say Thank You. So many of you have written and called expressing concern over Xian and her condition. She is improving slowly but surely. Again, thank you so much for all your kind letters, emails, and prayers. Oh, and Xian says "Thank You" too!

All I Want For Christmas

2011-12-23T23:30:00.006+08:00

"I don't want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need."

(The following are pictures from the White Elephant Gift Exchange in my classes. I was able to leave the hospital here and there to teach and then head back.)
"I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree."
"I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know."
"I don't need to hang my stocking there upon the fireplace."
"Santa Claus won't make me happy with a toy on Christmas Day."
"I won't make a list and send it to the North Pole for Saint Nick."
"I hear those sleigh bells ringing, Santa won't you bring me the one I really need."
"Make my wish come true, baby all I wan't for Christmas is you."

Killing Me Softly (Originally Posted Dec 5, 2011)

2011-12-22T10:22:00.002+08:00

“I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style
And so I came to see him to listen for a while…” -Roberta Flack

Xian is sick. She is throwing up and clutching her chest so we take her to the local clinic to the clown pediatrician who insists on wearing a surgical gown and round mirror head piece. He sits her in the chair, he takes her temperature and makes her say, “Ahhh!” He speaks to her in Chinese and tells her to avoid pears and cold water.
I’m serious.
Rebekah is next. She is coughing with a runny nose. He tells her to not eat ice cream on birthdays and makes me promise not to feed my daughters a special kind of cold noodle I’ve never heard of. Then he gives her a breathing treatment out of the respirator.
I have to beg him to speak in English to me. Before I go he reminds me, most importantly, no cold water. This is very important, under no circumstances should anyone drink cold water during winter. I ask about her chest pains he says it's nothing.
“And there he was this young boy, a stranger to my eyes
“I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd.” -Roberta Flack

The next morning my teacher buddy Paul and I stride into the local breakfast shop before school and the man at the counter screams, “You’re a GIANT!’ Paul speaks Chinese and makes his order. Medium latte, scrambled egg sandwich.
“And you’re FAT!”
Paul nods, “Just a cup of coffee please.”
“How old are you?” the wife barks from the register.
“I think the GIANT is forty-five.”
“No, he’s fifty-five. Look at that grey beard. He should play Santa Claus.”
“Hey GIANT,” he man asks, “Will you play Santa Claus?”
Paul shrugs, “I just want a cup of coffee…”
Ten minutes later Paul and I are in the office, slumped over chairs, looking at each other and shaking our heads.
“I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud
“He sang as if he knew me, in all my dark despair…” -Roberta Flack

The administrator drops a memo on our desks. A new law on the books in Taiwan states foreign workers will have to pay taxes to the city government. Of course, this is taxation without representation. So I figured I would complain about some of the things in school I have a right to complain about now that I am a Taiwan tax payer. Did you know that there are no hand towels in any bathrooms in the school? I can see my foreign reader’s jaws hitting the floor. Oh yes, we go to the bathroom, we wash our hands without soap in the trough, then we shake them dry as we walk outside…
Can you see a problem with this?
This is a country obsessed with SARS and H1N1, and if a kid is diagnosed with a temperature 38 degrees plus, they are sent home, and if they catch a cold, the government mandates them to stay home for a week at the parent’s expense… how about this…? Put some freaking hand towels in the bathroom, spend a couple of pennies on disposable paper and save thousands of dollars in out-of-pocket parent, sub-teacher, and doctor insurance costs… I don’t know… seems like a smart move to me… but what do I know. I’m just a dumb tax payer... I'm off to class...
“And then he looked right through me as if I wasn’t there…” -Roberta Flack

Andrew’s wife is having a baby by cesarean which means they can schedule it. The baby is breech, and the grandfather steps in. After consulting the I-Ching, he determines the best day to have the baby would be Wednesday the 7th, which is middle of the week for Andrew and no good. Originally it was the Saturday before. His wife is laboring, hard to breathe, bed ridden… but if the baby is not born on the day grandfather chooses then he will lord it over them forever. Granddaughter fails a test… it’s because she wasn’t born on the 7th. Granddaughter catches a cold… it’s because they didn’t heed his advice. Granddaughter loses a sock, falls off her bike, doesn’t walk until she’s 11 months… you name it, grandfather wins… and they wait another five days. Welcome to Asia.
“Strumming my pain with his fingers singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song…” -Roberta Flack

Sitting in the office scanning the news… ex-Illinois governor Blagojevich getting 14 years… Syrian President Bashar al-Assad claiming he didn’t order soldiers to fire on his own people, woman caught mutilating husband over TV remote…and then I get the call, Xian has pneumonia… it’s more severe than we thought, the chest pains she was complaining about are actually a fluid build-up on her lungs. The local quack at the clinic missed it, and now she’s in the China Medical University Emergency Room. I’m to come immediately. There’s discussion of a surgery.
I leave class immediately, grab a taxi, and head across town. Roberta Flack is playing in the cab.

Things Said to Me Walking into First Period after Sleeping on a Hospital Chair All Night

2011-12-21T21:33:00.003+08:00

You’re late!
We didn’t miss you
You have my USB. Give it back
Hey, you promised us a Christmas Party yesterday but you were gone. You lied.
Where is the video?
We’ve seen this before.
We don’t want to sing Christmas songs
You’re a liar
You said there would be cake
Did you grade our essays yet? When can we have them back?
This is boring!
Where are the cookies?
GAME!
Can’t we just sleep?
He hit me!
My father said, “Give this to your teacher and have him grade it.” He needs it back tomorrow.
He stole my book!
You wore that shirt last week
You are very ugly today
Yes, very tired.
You are old. You are going to die.
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha
We hated the sub!
What are we doing today?

After Yet Another Furious Night, Morning, and Afternoon in the Taiwan Hospital

2011-12-21T13:47:00.009+08:00

Dear Reader,
This is just a reminder that there are better places in the world, and certainly, reasons to live that are far beyond your current surroundings.

To my daughter's doctors dressed like they’re swinging in nightclubs
Perry Ellis Shoes and American Eagle belt buckles
Who tell dirty jokes in the hallway
Whose rap music ringtones can be heard through walls
Who explain nothing to me and sigh when I bother to ask
Who use my 8-year-old as a translator
Who laugh when I want to follow into radiology
Who don’t hold my daughter’s hand when she cries
Who poke and stick and prod without even looking at her
Who get upset when I question their ultra-sounds
Who have never been questioned by a parent with an iPhone.

For you, my daughter's doctors: This is what I think of you.
To my daughter's nurses who scowl at my eyes
Who have not once introduced themselves
Who walk into the room and start sticking with needles
Who have never once told Xian she is being brave
Who never once held her hand when she cried
Who never bothered to even put their hands in comfort on her body
Who enter the room, poke and prod and walk out
Who hide behind white surgical masks
Who roll their eyes when I ask the name of the medicine they are injecting
Who expect my daughter to hit a buzzer when her IV drip runs out instead of checking routinely on rounds
Who spend forty-five minutes trying to find a vein in my daughter’s arm while she screamed bloody murder
Who never once offered her a kind word
Who never once smiled at her
Who told her to stop crying it gives her a headache
Who get upset when I ask to pull the curtain around the bed
Who use the “Asian Woman Baby Voice” when explaining complex medical terms to me.

This is for you, my daughter's nurses: This is what I think of you.
For the screaming baby in the incubator trapped beside me in the public elevator
For the old woman under a sheet left to decay in the hall
For the doctor reeking of cigarette smoke
For the squashed mosquitoes left flattened on the walls
For the un-corked vials of blood left sitting on the counter
For the exposed needle left on the rusted garbage can in the room
For the baby cockroaches roaming across the toilet seat
For the splatter stains left rotting on the floor and walls
For the dried blood spots staining your shoes
For having to push your own IV drip down the hall
For the dust on the vents, and chair backs, and medical equipment left in the room.

This is for you, my daughter's hospital: This is what I think of you.
For the guard at the gate who would not let me enter past 10 o’clock
For the barefoot men sleeping in the waiting room sprawled out on the floor
For the exposed wires and construction saws and drunk waving the nail gun
For the angry-faced admissions clerk who won’t accept my numbered slip
For the disgusting 7-eleven employee who couldn’t add 16 and 37 and when I gave her 60 she looked at me like I was an idiot, and when I handed it back to her she said, “WHAT?” and when I put 20 next to the 16 and 40 next to the 37, she gave me 2 back as change, and when I looked at her and asked for my five she told me to get out
Yes, she told me to get out of 7-eleven.

This is for you, today's working class: This is what you must think of me.

Lincoln's Letter to Mrs. Bixby

2011-12-20T08:03:00.004+08:00

“I have been shown… that you are a mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.” -Lincoln

Teaching the American Civil War to high school students in Taiwan is… well… just like you would expect it to be. I show them clips from the 1970’s miniseries Roots. I show them scenes from Amistad when the slaves are being transported across the Atlantic in creaking old ships. I show them that scene from Glory where Broderick has Denzel Washington whipped, and he strips off his shirt to reveal all those scars on his back. I divide the class into groups of “Yellows” and “Greenies” and let one group sit on chairs and have access to books and make the other group squat in the back and take orders from the other… just to show a small splinter of what the real conflict was about, but it's just words and pictures. It can never reveal how deep the bayonet sinks into the skin.
“I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a los so overwhelming.” -Lincoln

It ain’t easy, I get it. I choose the topics, I'm not naive in any sense. So when we find ourselves at Lincoln, I pause because I want it to stick. We talk about his humble upbringing and early failures, how he married an insane woman who died of a stroke after falling down and refusing to stand up. How in the middle of all this mayhem and madness Lincoln had to be strong, hold a country and a family together.
“But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.” -Lincoln

The kids know Lincoln. They know a couple of American presidents, but they are most fascinated by the little details their history text books don’t say. The mud that slips through the Mt. Rushmore monument cracks, like how Washington constantly complained about wooden teeth or how Kennedy had the secret service do his mistress bidding, but with Lincoln, it’s about words. Words were all Lincoln had.
“I pray our heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement…” -Lincoln

Oh, we’ve studied the Gettysburg Address and some of his personal letters, but one stands out: The Letter to Mrs. Bixby, an aging woman from Boston who lost five sons to the cause of the Republic. The correspondence is brief, what else would you expect from a man whose name is truncated to “Abe”? But concise in his sequence of grief. Lincoln states he is weak in his ability to comfort, expresses sorry, offers solace, thanks her, and ends with a prayer. I mean, what can you say to a parent who has lost a child, let alone five of them?
“The solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the alter of freedom.” -Lincoln

As I leave the hospital bed beside Xian and taxi back to school to teach this lesson, only to return a few hours later, sitting in the back of the yellow cab as it winds its way through the streets, numb and worrisome, I am reminded of other famous sequences to overcoming addiction and personal tragedy. How we are to admit we are powerless and come to believe there is a power greater than ours, and change our will toward that power.
Again. Just words. Not answers. But again it's time to pull myself up and stand in front of others and pretend I know the meaning of both.

A Fortnight Waiting for Sunrise

2011-12-19T23:07:00.002+08:00

Early Saturday morning, Children's Ward, 7th floor.

Rebekah Performs at Christmas Pageant

2011-12-18T14:24:00.004+08:00

Now before I go any farther, please know that whatever I have said or written about the International School's Christmas Presentation... you can throw it out the window because now I'm writting about my daughter Rebekah. How awesome is Rebekah? That is really the only question that surrounds her. She is our little helper, our sweetheart, our little lover. She takes care of others first and is only happy when her sisters are happy and everyone else is satisfied. If, like the song goes, we are to Thank Heaven for Little Girls... then I need to personally Thank God for this one! Having Big Sister in the hospital these last two weeks has been difficult, but nobody has taken it harder than middle Sis Bekah. So we took a break from hospital shifts and round the clock care, and headed out into the sunshine to watch Rebekah and her classmates dance to Jingle Bell Rock and The Tikki Room. Kinu, who sleeps in that antler headband, tagged along. She's like her dad and tries to avoid big crowds. Kudos to Teacher Dora and Mia, who have been such a constant help to my kids here. Truly, have blessed and enriched our experience here. You've not only taught my daughters Chinese, dance instructor too...? But you have become part of our extended family. Thanks for giving us such a nice memory. I have no idea where we will be in the next year, but days like today our worth everything, watching my daughters laugh and giggle, get on stage and perform something they have practiced and worked hard at, makes me very proud. Thank you. I mean... just look at these goofballs! What more could a guy ask for? That's right... I have the best thing in the world right in my arms.