Today I ran into a woman I frequently see at Starbucks. She’s a cute and petite Malaysian woman who is living in China with her husband. We sometimes chat about what’s new in our lives because we both happen to speak English.
We both love hiking and being outdoors and this afternoon our conversation shifted from trail-blazing talk to the difference between city-dwellers and country folk. We were encompassing all such people of every nation.
I told her about living in Wyoming and she gave me a general idea of what it was like growing up in the Malaysian countryside. We’ve both spent a great deal of time in big cities, and in countries foreign to our own. However, we agreed that knowledge of both urban and rural living is naturally a good thing to experience.
She said something to me that stuck out as an interesting observation, not to mention an interesting turn of phrase. She said, “People who live in cities do not know what the ground feels like.”
I haven’t yet figured out how I am going to use it in a poem yet, but I know it will find its way into one, somehow. She referred to the joys of being outdoors, of having harmonious connections with nature and the slower temperament of the environment beyond a concrete metropolis.
Ain’t no sidewalks in the Snowies. No pavement in Medicine Bow. No asphalt at Vedauwoo. I have felt the ground under my feet and I miss it.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Temporarily Defective 临时地 不适
My first experience with Chinese cold medicine. A drink that Lucy bought for me in the Chinese medicine store because she feels guilty that I caught her cold.
The name is 感冒灵颗粒 or gan mao ling ke li. Roughly translated: “Cold Excellent Powder.”
I wouldn’t call it excellent, at least not for taste. Naturally, it is like the underneath of a rotting tree: bitter, earthy, and a soil brown. The next time you’re in the forest and it starts to rain, bend down and lick the base of a dying tree. You might get an idea of what I mean.
The powder itself was like cracked ginger crystals, darker than raw brown sugar and less transparent. The little grains were pellets in my cup before I poured the boiling water.
I’ve been warned of a drowsing effect. That suits me just fine. I’d rather sleep through a cold anyway. For two days now I’ve tried to ignore the sore and swollen glands, the stuffy nose, the sneezing, the coughing, the headaches, the foggy dizziness; but now I think I’ll admit that I’m sick. 不适. Bring on the bark-rot liquid.
The name is 感冒灵颗粒 or gan mao ling ke li. Roughly translated: “Cold Excellent Powder.”
I wouldn’t call it excellent, at least not for taste. Naturally, it is like the underneath of a rotting tree: bitter, earthy, and a soil brown. The next time you’re in the forest and it starts to rain, bend down and lick the base of a dying tree. You might get an idea of what I mean.
The powder itself was like cracked ginger crystals, darker than raw brown sugar and less transparent. The little grains were pellets in my cup before I poured the boiling water.
I’ve been warned of a drowsing effect. That suits me just fine. I’d rather sleep through a cold anyway. For two days now I’ve tried to ignore the sore and swollen glands, the stuffy nose, the sneezing, the coughing, the headaches, the foggy dizziness; but now I think I’ll admit that I’m sick. 不适. Bring on the bark-rot liquid.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Where are the Basics?
Yes, professor. What do they teach them at these schools? Tomorrow Tina must hand in her final research paper for her senior project. Her topic: why Christians should be more tolerant of New Age music.
She’s had this project since the beginning of the semester and, up until today, has not let me help her with her paper. Why? I have no idea. I taught 5 consecutive semesters of freshman college composition and yet she didn’t want my input until this evening. Unfortunately, it is now too late.
I read her paper this afternoon and noticed some egregious citation problems, as well as lack of credible sources in general. I eventually looked up from the paper to ask her, “Have they taught you how to research at your school?” I got the deer-in-headlights stare. Of course they haven’t taught her how to research. How silly of me to think that, before assigning them a research paper, they would instruct them on the fundamentals of research methods.
I began at the beginning – a very good place to start, says Julie Andrews. Keywords. I am astonished that this was a new concept to Tina. A simple Google search of key phrases and words produced over a million sites related to her topic.
Next came the issue of source credibility and substance. Oh my, how the young ones love Wikipedia and the dictionary. Her reluctance of revising her essay was based on the fear that new information would change her claims. That, I told her, was all part of the research process. If you find evidence to suggest your claims to be wrong, maybe you need to rewrite your claims. This was met with whines and groans.
This brought us back to the matter of showing me her essay so late in the game. With only tonight to make these major discoveries, there is no way she will get her paper to the level of where it needs to be. I’ve written comments in the margins, given her helpful research tools, steered her in the right direction, pointed out organization flaws, confusing and contradictory statements, even corrected all of her grammar. Now the crunch begins.
When, oh when, will they learn? But an even better question: Why aren’t the schools teaching them what they need to know in order to do the lessons that the school assigns in the first place? Where is the logic of the curriculum?
She’s had this project since the beginning of the semester and, up until today, has not let me help her with her paper. Why? I have no idea. I taught 5 consecutive semesters of freshman college composition and yet she didn’t want my input until this evening. Unfortunately, it is now too late.
I read her paper this afternoon and noticed some egregious citation problems, as well as lack of credible sources in general. I eventually looked up from the paper to ask her, “Have they taught you how to research at your school?” I got the deer-in-headlights stare. Of course they haven’t taught her how to research. How silly of me to think that, before assigning them a research paper, they would instruct them on the fundamentals of research methods.
I began at the beginning – a very good place to start, says Julie Andrews. Keywords. I am astonished that this was a new concept to Tina. A simple Google search of key phrases and words produced over a million sites related to her topic.
Next came the issue of source credibility and substance. Oh my, how the young ones love Wikipedia and the dictionary. Her reluctance of revising her essay was based on the fear that new information would change her claims. That, I told her, was all part of the research process. If you find evidence to suggest your claims to be wrong, maybe you need to rewrite your claims. This was met with whines and groans.
This brought us back to the matter of showing me her essay so late in the game. With only tonight to make these major discoveries, there is no way she will get her paper to the level of where it needs to be. I’ve written comments in the margins, given her helpful research tools, steered her in the right direction, pointed out organization flaws, confusing and contradictory statements, even corrected all of her grammar. Now the crunch begins.
When, oh when, will they learn? But an even better question: Why aren’t the schools teaching them what they need to know in order to do the lessons that the school assigns in the first place? Where is the logic of the curriculum?
Friday, December 4, 2009
Mmm's the Word
I have recently discovered a liking for sliced pumpkin. It has that nice gord-y taste and with a bit of salt it is nearly like combining the taste of squash with the texture of mango. And, I admit, there are some Korean foods that I have dared to try and ended up liking – Korean pancakes, for starters (safe enough). Rice cakes. These are not the rice cakes you and I are familiar with – the Quaker Oats, I’m-on-a-diet-and-I-need-a-snack-that-tastes-like-cardboard rice cakes. No. Korean rice cakes are long tubes of compressed rice. They look like mozzarella cheese sticks. In the frying pan, with a little bit of honey, they’re not bad. Korean curry is something else I don’t mind having every few weeks. It is rather fruity and not very heavy. However, I still prefer an Indian curry to any other.
I try to be open about food, but I have a certain distaste for things that make me squirm. Packaged dried squid. Vacuum-sealed dried fish that you can rip apart with your teeth like jerky. The brains of any animal. Chicken feet. Stinky tofu. Fruit that looks like a Nerf ball. There are some things regarding food that I will never understand.
And somebody please tell me what is so great about Sushi. It has become this craze, this trend, this popular dish that everyone raves about. They hunt through cities to find the best sushi restaurant. They go out of their way to spend outrageous money on such a simple meal. They consider it a treat. Seriously, people. It is raw fish and rice with seaweed.
Unless it is traditional fish ‘n chips a-la-U.K., I’d rather not eat fish at all, much less raw fish. That said, I’m going to go ahead and be a hypocrite and say I love raw oysters on the half-shell. Really cold, just a squeeze of lemon. But honestly. Sushi? Someone explain that to me.
I’m sure that now that I’ve made this speech about sushi, in a year or so I’ll develop a taste for it and become on of those sushi-loving snobs. But for now, it’s not for me. So, I am a bit of a picky eater. Not too picky, I don’t think. Not enough to annoy people completely. But picky enough to be called “a bit of a picky eater.” Quintessentially, I’ve learned to accept that my taste buds are not inclined to many Asian foods, but favor rather more Mediterranean or Middle Eastern cuisine. And, of course, I am desperately fond of Mexican food, too. Really, anything starting with an “M.”
I try to be open about food, but I have a certain distaste for things that make me squirm. Packaged dried squid. Vacuum-sealed dried fish that you can rip apart with your teeth like jerky. The brains of any animal. Chicken feet. Stinky tofu. Fruit that looks like a Nerf ball. There are some things regarding food that I will never understand.
And somebody please tell me what is so great about Sushi. It has become this craze, this trend, this popular dish that everyone raves about. They hunt through cities to find the best sushi restaurant. They go out of their way to spend outrageous money on such a simple meal. They consider it a treat. Seriously, people. It is raw fish and rice with seaweed.
Unless it is traditional fish ‘n chips a-la-U.K., I’d rather not eat fish at all, much less raw fish. That said, I’m going to go ahead and be a hypocrite and say I love raw oysters on the half-shell. Really cold, just a squeeze of lemon. But honestly. Sushi? Someone explain that to me.
I’m sure that now that I’ve made this speech about sushi, in a year or so I’ll develop a taste for it and become on of those sushi-loving snobs. But for now, it’s not for me. So, I am a bit of a picky eater. Not too picky, I don’t think. Not enough to annoy people completely. But picky enough to be called “a bit of a picky eater.” Quintessentially, I’ve learned to accept that my taste buds are not inclined to many Asian foods, but favor rather more Mediterranean or Middle Eastern cuisine. And, of course, I am desperately fond of Mexican food, too. Really, anything starting with an “M.”
The Midnight Disease
Michael Chabon’s well-named alias for insomnia. And I’ve got it. For about a month now I haven’t been able to fall asleep before dawn. I’ve watched the sun rise nearly every morning now - or at least I have watched the haze over Hangzhou get lighter by the hours.
Part of the problem, I’m sure, is that I’ve resumed my old addiction of lattes and cappuccinos. One thing I would never recommend is taking up the habit again after four years of java abstinence. Sometimes I slip and forget to order decaf. It’s like coming back to heroin.
The coffee isn’t all to blame, though. I have no discipline when it comes to switching off my brain. I construct emails, I draft poems, and I make lists, all in the dark while my head twitches on the pillow. I do this for a routine hour or two every night before I realize sleep just isn’t going to happen. I give up, turn on the light again and read (or come back to writing).
It is fear that I will miss out on some profound line of poetry coming to me, that I will be laying in my bed with my eyes closed and a poem will slip into my head and, if I don’t get up and write it down immediately, it will slip out again.
In Wyoming, I got into the habit of falling asleep with a pen in my hand and a pad of paper just underneath. If a line or a thought came to mind, I’d simply scribble it down in the dark, sometimes without ever even opening my eyes. In the morning I’d have to transcribe my own downward-slanting chicken scratch onto the computer. This seemed a good method and I might return to it.
Another problem, not surprisingly, is the constant noise and interruptions of the apartment and those girls with whom I live. They leave their cell phones and their organizers and their messenger thingys all out in the living room to beep beep beep all night long.
For four nights in a row this week, I have jumped up to an alarm going off just outside my door. Today I asked them, “Did you hear it?” They answered yes. Why, then, was I the only one to emerge from my room to silence the darn thing? They are not my belongings. I don’t know how to work a Korean internet phone, nor an electronic Korean dictionary/organizer.
I thumbed the small machines in the dark, trying to find off switches. At one point, I considered simply chucking them out of the window, but thought better of it. It is currently 3:30 in the morning and I have already switched off one machine. I wonder how many sounds and bells and whistles I’ll wish to break in the next few hours to come.
Then, invariably, there is always the girls’ morning routine. They rise at 6:00 am and the unremitting noise only ends when they are out the door at 7:45. I hear singing, yelling, screeching, shrieking, and cries of Korean morning clangings.
Peace finally comes at 8:00 am and I am able to sleep until around 11:00. At this point, the housekeeper bangs the laundry poles against my window, hanging up the morning’s washings. So, I rise. I check the weather. Then I walk a mile down the road to Starbucks and have the latte that will keep me awake again.
Part of the problem, I’m sure, is that I’ve resumed my old addiction of lattes and cappuccinos. One thing I would never recommend is taking up the habit again after four years of java abstinence. Sometimes I slip and forget to order decaf. It’s like coming back to heroin.
The coffee isn’t all to blame, though. I have no discipline when it comes to switching off my brain. I construct emails, I draft poems, and I make lists, all in the dark while my head twitches on the pillow. I do this for a routine hour or two every night before I realize sleep just isn’t going to happen. I give up, turn on the light again and read (or come back to writing).
It is fear that I will miss out on some profound line of poetry coming to me, that I will be laying in my bed with my eyes closed and a poem will slip into my head and, if I don’t get up and write it down immediately, it will slip out again.
In Wyoming, I got into the habit of falling asleep with a pen in my hand and a pad of paper just underneath. If a line or a thought came to mind, I’d simply scribble it down in the dark, sometimes without ever even opening my eyes. In the morning I’d have to transcribe my own downward-slanting chicken scratch onto the computer. This seemed a good method and I might return to it.
Another problem, not surprisingly, is the constant noise and interruptions of the apartment and those girls with whom I live. They leave their cell phones and their organizers and their messenger thingys all out in the living room to beep beep beep all night long.
For four nights in a row this week, I have jumped up to an alarm going off just outside my door. Today I asked them, “Did you hear it?” They answered yes. Why, then, was I the only one to emerge from my room to silence the darn thing? They are not my belongings. I don’t know how to work a Korean internet phone, nor an electronic Korean dictionary/organizer.
I thumbed the small machines in the dark, trying to find off switches. At one point, I considered simply chucking them out of the window, but thought better of it. It is currently 3:30 in the morning and I have already switched off one machine. I wonder how many sounds and bells and whistles I’ll wish to break in the next few hours to come.
Then, invariably, there is always the girls’ morning routine. They rise at 6:00 am and the unremitting noise only ends when they are out the door at 7:45. I hear singing, yelling, screeching, shrieking, and cries of Korean morning clangings.
Peace finally comes at 8:00 am and I am able to sleep until around 11:00. At this point, the housekeeper bangs the laundry poles against my window, hanging up the morning’s washings. So, I rise. I check the weather. Then I walk a mile down the road to Starbucks and have the latte that will keep me awake again.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Coming Through the Rye
Tina and I finished reading The Catcher in the Rye today – a book I haven’t read in about ten years. I’m happy to revisit it. Unfortunately I think the cynical and trite voice of Holden Caulfield may be sticking in my head. For one, I’ve felt like swearing a hell of a lot more than usual.
I think reading this book has been a good turning point for trying to teach Tina to start thinking more critically about literature and how it applies to us all outside the world of novels. She has led a very sheltered existence and there have been many fits and starts during our readings and analyses where I’ve had to bite my tongue and remind myself that she has not been subjected to many of the nuances or idioms or ironies of life. In short, she just doesn’t “get it.” Everything must to be explained.
The hardest, for me, was getting her to make certain connections for herself, instead of pointing them out for her. There are things I consider obvious, and had done even when I had read Catcher at Tina’s age. I also wonder if there is something to be said for the reader’s own sexuality when reading this book. Not preference, mind you, but sexual maturity, in general. I see Tina as still being a very, very young girl, despite her actual age. This book, I believe, lies a bit beyond her own years, even though she happens to be the same age as the main character. Some of us grow at different rates.
I pitied Holden Caulfield in high school and I pity him now. It is unfortunate that I can also see something of a female counterpart in Tina. It is also unfortunate that I would say Holden was less pitiable than Tina, since we all assume he eventually gained some sort of self-awareness through it all. Regrettably, I believe Tina may still be a long way off from this.
On the other hand, Reena is only 14; but I enjoy teaching her because she has a quick mind and interesting ideas. I can talk to her about how one views the world and what sort of questions to ask to become a critical thinker. We read a few books together this semester. One of them called BreadWinner, about a young girl, struggling to survive in Afghanistan under scrutiny of the Taliban and forced to disguise herself as a boy in order to provide for her family. Reena made wonderful discoveries while she read the book. She has the gift of insight.
We also read a book called Speak. It was a good thing for her to read, I think, because she is soon to come upon the same things the young girl encountered in the book - although I hope to hell her high school life won't be as tough. But we discussed teenage emotions, rape, boyfriends, high school social life, and the social-political hierarchy of popularity, etc. These are the times when I really like teaching.
My time with these girls is almost up and I worry what will happen to them in the future. However, I must admit that I am far less concerned with Reena than I am with Tina. Reena is independent, self-starting, motivated, intuitive, and curious. She’s strong and has no problem figuring things out on her own. Conversely, Tina is the one who will be a college student next fall. I wonder if she’ll be ready for it all, or if it will suddenly overwhelm and confuse her. I can only hope there exists some safety net, wherever she ends up – that maybe someone will act as sentinel, that she finds her own catcher in the rye.
I think reading this book has been a good turning point for trying to teach Tina to start thinking more critically about literature and how it applies to us all outside the world of novels. She has led a very sheltered existence and there have been many fits and starts during our readings and analyses where I’ve had to bite my tongue and remind myself that she has not been subjected to many of the nuances or idioms or ironies of life. In short, she just doesn’t “get it.” Everything must to be explained.
The hardest, for me, was getting her to make certain connections for herself, instead of pointing them out for her. There are things I consider obvious, and had done even when I had read Catcher at Tina’s age. I also wonder if there is something to be said for the reader’s own sexuality when reading this book. Not preference, mind you, but sexual maturity, in general. I see Tina as still being a very, very young girl, despite her actual age. This book, I believe, lies a bit beyond her own years, even though she happens to be the same age as the main character. Some of us grow at different rates.
I pitied Holden Caulfield in high school and I pity him now. It is unfortunate that I can also see something of a female counterpart in Tina. It is also unfortunate that I would say Holden was less pitiable than Tina, since we all assume he eventually gained some sort of self-awareness through it all. Regrettably, I believe Tina may still be a long way off from this.
On the other hand, Reena is only 14; but I enjoy teaching her because she has a quick mind and interesting ideas. I can talk to her about how one views the world and what sort of questions to ask to become a critical thinker. We read a few books together this semester. One of them called BreadWinner, about a young girl, struggling to survive in Afghanistan under scrutiny of the Taliban and forced to disguise herself as a boy in order to provide for her family. Reena made wonderful discoveries while she read the book. She has the gift of insight.
We also read a book called Speak. It was a good thing for her to read, I think, because she is soon to come upon the same things the young girl encountered in the book - although I hope to hell her high school life won't be as tough. But we discussed teenage emotions, rape, boyfriends, high school social life, and the social-political hierarchy of popularity, etc. These are the times when I really like teaching.
My time with these girls is almost up and I worry what will happen to them in the future. However, I must admit that I am far less concerned with Reena than I am with Tina. Reena is independent, self-starting, motivated, intuitive, and curious. She’s strong and has no problem figuring things out on her own. Conversely, Tina is the one who will be a college student next fall. I wonder if she’ll be ready for it all, or if it will suddenly overwhelm and confuse her. I can only hope there exists some safety net, wherever she ends up – that maybe someone will act as sentinel, that she finds her own catcher in the rye.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Christmas Kick-Off
My younger student, Reena, had a choir performance this evening in Hangzhou for the Tree Lighting Ceremony at the Hyatt Regency on West Lake. The tree was beautiful and filled its branches from floor to vaulted ceiling in the lobby. The kids all wore Santa hats and sang carols. Tone-deaf middle and high schoolers belted out a not-so-Silent-Night while the parents (yes, Lucy and I included) shut our ears with free mulled wine, passed around by cute little Chinese waitresses in Mrs. Claus costumes. This, of course, was the best part for me, since mulled wine is my favorite. I kept the cinnamon stick.
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