Blogging can be difficult when you are busy, feeling stressed, or just have nothing to talk about. Fortunately, my problem has been the first two, but I have waited too long to tell you about all the stuff that I am afraid this update may not be as eventful as some other ones. But here I go.
As most of you people stateside kno, last Thursday was Thanksgiving. Nothing was different here. It's like they don't celebrate it here...oh wait, they don't. But as a courtesy to us, the teachers, we were given a long weekend and a short half day to prepare for our feast. This was actually they Thanksgiving I found myself most looking forward to in a long time. Not because I don't like Thanksgiving with my family, even though not having an hour debate about which movie to see and then not getting tickets was not missed. Rather I love thanksgiving with my family, especially my mom's cooking and having my cousins in town. But I was just excited this time around.
I mostly think it was because our team was doing all the planning. We were buying, preparing, and serving the food. We got to create a little bit of USA here in Honduras, which is really comforting this close to a very long break. And we got to share all of this with the Honduran teachers and a bunch of other people affiliated with the school. All in all we had a T-day feast with about 30 people.
Norah and I were in charge of dessert. We made and upside down banana cake, oatmeal raisin cookies, chocolate cookies, and two pumpkin pies. Norah and I actually have a tradition of making cookies every weekend, so we were thrilled to try out something new.
Our display was complete with cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and most importantly a turkey. I really was a beautiful occasion and one that was even more special being able to share it with people who we interact with everyday. But the best is yet to come--long weekend with enough time to travel.
So off to Copan we went. Copan is a city in western Honduras most famous, scratch that, only famous for the Mayan ruins right outside of town. And maybe coffee.
This ruins are not the greatest of the Mayan territory but they are the most ornate. I was not entirely impressed by the size of them. I mean, having seen Incan ruins with their giant stones pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle, it is hard to top, but the designs that are so accurately carved in the stone are magnificent.
We didn't do much but eat, drink and sleep, but it was all worth it. Every time I travel I wonder why the food we buy in restaurants cannot be found in Cofradía. We even went to a Honduran food restaurant that was leagues above anything you would find in Cofradía. This restaurant was the equivalent of the Chinese restaurant in you city where all of the Chinese people go (the Canton Cooks of Honduras if you will). I mean, I am in the same country. It is the same food. Why does it taste so different?
Our tour of the ruins was by far the most entertaining part of the weekend. Notice how I said entertaining, not informative. Our tour guide never really made anything up, he just didn't seem to know very much. Also he kept sharing really weird things with us:
(Before buying tickets, talking over the plan)
Henry (tour guide): Tickets to the park are $15 and to the tunnels is another $15. I really do recommend the tunnels. You will get to see the temple Rosalila, which is quite beautiful and colorful.
Us: Let's just do the main park and decide later.
(Begin tour and walk for about 20 minutes)
(Stop at the first really temple)
Henry: I like you guys, so I am ] going to be honest with you. It was smart not to buy tickets to the tunnels. There is really not much to see.
(Laughter ensues)
This was only one of many strange occurrences that happened with Henry. Most of which were brutally honest, completely pulled out of his ass, or just plain strange. Like I said, entertaining, not informative.
In the end, it was a great trip, a great weekend, and a great feast. By the way, I'll be in Atlanta in three weeks?!
Posting new pictures in a minute or so.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A Harsh Reality
I have been having a spectacular week. I have noticed that the more prepared you are and the more though you put into making lessons fun, the better they are, and the less you actually have to teach. I mean, it is never going to be perfect, but my patience is not running low and I am in a generally better mood. That is not to say, however, that I am not excited for it to be Friday. One week closer to Thanksgiving which is going to be an extravaganza beyond belief. More on that to come.
But the mundane is not interesting and I am not here to bore you (even though that is probably themmost common side effect of reading my blog).
Yesterday I was grading an assignment when a came across an irregularity in one of my student's work. His work from the week before had been excellent which made me think he was really reading my suggestions and trying to improve. I was really impressed, he had followed my suggestion to a "t" and that almost never happens.
Bu upon reading his work this week I noticed that he had reverted back to his old ways. It was so striking in fact that for a while I sat an wondered how this could have happened. He receives feedback from me every week and I couldn't see any reason why his work would take a one time adventure to excellent town and then back again. So I looked at his work from last week and realized it was not his writing. I told him in my comments to come see me when he read this.
This morning I asked him about the irregularity in his work and he told me that it was indeed his work and that he wrote it. WHY DO THEY LIE? DO THEY REALLY THINK I AM THAT STUPID?
It obviously was not his work, so I asked him again. This time...he lied again. He told me his mother wrote it. This was probably the most unbelievable thing he could possibly say. For one moment imagine a student who is learning English dictating to his mother the words to write on the page. By the way, he is dictating in Spanish, and the writing is English. The only way to do this would be to announce every letter individually. This would take forever.
So I called him on it again and he finally admitted to it being another students handwriting, a girl nonetheless. We all know that boys and girls at age 10 have handwriting that looks nothing alike. I briefly spoke to the two students about why this is bad and told them I would soon have a punishment for the both of them.
I decided to give both of them the same punishment, a falta menor. The real story is that my male student had asked for help to which my female student was much obliged. But when trying to help him, he was stubborn and so this female student just wrote it for him.
When I gave them each the form to be signed by a parent, I explained why each of them was wrong. Jasson was wrong for allowing Susana to do his homework and for trying to turn it in as his own. Susana was wrong for doing Jasson's homework and writing in his journal. Yes, she was just trying to help but if Jasson is being stubborn then don't help him, never should you do someone else's assignment for them. But the moral is not my point.
Both of these students were visibly upset until lunch. Susana changed her attitude once I spoke with her mother who brings lunch everyday. Jasson, however, did not recover. At the very end of the day I pulled him aside to ask him why he had let this effect him the whole day. This was not his first falta, but he had never acted this was about anything, he was literally a negative-nancy zombie all day. His answer was one of those times when you hear something and immediately you feel like you have been punched in the stomach.
"My mom is going to hit me."
I just stood there for about 10 seconds searching for something to say that would ease the situation. But the truth is, there is nothing I could possibly say to him. No child should have to fear going home because when he is in trouble his parents hit him. Sadly, this is common place in Honduras, and many of our students receive the same punishment.
Essentially because of me he will be hit by his mother. Yes, I did not turn in someone else's work. Yes, I did not lie to my teacher. But had I known this I might have given a different punishment. My excellent week had quickly taken a turn for the worst and I somehow felt solely responsible for this child's pending doom.
But, the fact is that I cannot base my punishment off of what a particular family practices at home. Simply knowing that Jasson faces a physical punishment at home is not justification for giving him a lesser punishment. Moreover, Susana will not be hit tonight and she is far less guilt than Jasson. Even though it pained me to see him walk away today, his house is beyond my control.
This was the harshest reality I have faced since being in Honduras.
But the mundane is not interesting and I am not here to bore you (even though that is probably themmost common side effect of reading my blog).
Yesterday I was grading an assignment when a came across an irregularity in one of my student's work. His work from the week before had been excellent which made me think he was really reading my suggestions and trying to improve. I was really impressed, he had followed my suggestion to a "t" and that almost never happens.
Bu upon reading his work this week I noticed that he had reverted back to his old ways. It was so striking in fact that for a while I sat an wondered how this could have happened. He receives feedback from me every week and I couldn't see any reason why his work would take a one time adventure to excellent town and then back again. So I looked at his work from last week and realized it was not his writing. I told him in my comments to come see me when he read this.
This morning I asked him about the irregularity in his work and he told me that it was indeed his work and that he wrote it. WHY DO THEY LIE? DO THEY REALLY THINK I AM THAT STUPID?
It obviously was not his work, so I asked him again. This time...he lied again. He told me his mother wrote it. This was probably the most unbelievable thing he could possibly say. For one moment imagine a student who is learning English dictating to his mother the words to write on the page. By the way, he is dictating in Spanish, and the writing is English. The only way to do this would be to announce every letter individually. This would take forever.
So I called him on it again and he finally admitted to it being another students handwriting, a girl nonetheless. We all know that boys and girls at age 10 have handwriting that looks nothing alike. I briefly spoke to the two students about why this is bad and told them I would soon have a punishment for the both of them.
I decided to give both of them the same punishment, a falta menor. The real story is that my male student had asked for help to which my female student was much obliged. But when trying to help him, he was stubborn and so this female student just wrote it for him.
When I gave them each the form to be signed by a parent, I explained why each of them was wrong. Jasson was wrong for allowing Susana to do his homework and for trying to turn it in as his own. Susana was wrong for doing Jasson's homework and writing in his journal. Yes, she was just trying to help but if Jasson is being stubborn then don't help him, never should you do someone else's assignment for them. But the moral is not my point.
Both of these students were visibly upset until lunch. Susana changed her attitude once I spoke with her mother who brings lunch everyday. Jasson, however, did not recover. At the very end of the day I pulled him aside to ask him why he had let this effect him the whole day. This was not his first falta, but he had never acted this was about anything, he was literally a negative-nancy zombie all day. His answer was one of those times when you hear something and immediately you feel like you have been punched in the stomach.
"My mom is going to hit me."
I just stood there for about 10 seconds searching for something to say that would ease the situation. But the truth is, there is nothing I could possibly say to him. No child should have to fear going home because when he is in trouble his parents hit him. Sadly, this is common place in Honduras, and many of our students receive the same punishment.
Essentially because of me he will be hit by his mother. Yes, I did not turn in someone else's work. Yes, I did not lie to my teacher. But had I known this I might have given a different punishment. My excellent week had quickly taken a turn for the worst and I somehow felt solely responsible for this child's pending doom.
But, the fact is that I cannot base my punishment off of what a particular family practices at home. Simply knowing that Jasson faces a physical punishment at home is not justification for giving him a lesser punishment. Moreover, Susana will not be hit tonight and she is far less guilt than Jasson. Even though it pained me to see him walk away today, his house is beyond my control.
This was the harshest reality I have faced since being in Honduras.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Crisis (Hopefully) Averted
I would like to begin this post by saying that if you don't have parents as awesome as mine, you would be walking around with very calloused feet.
This morning on my walk to school, approximately 25 steps from my starting point, the worst possible thing happened to me: my Chacos broke.
Let's not even consider that I didn't see this coming and cut straight to the devastation. I was shoeless and it was a bad omen to start the day. I continued on my walk to school half muttering, half screaming obscenities to myself about how I am now without my absolute favorite footwear in the world. The best parts about Honduras: I can eat a great meal for less than a dollar and it is always Chaco season.
I show up at school and take a closer examination at my failed foot attire and begin to share my discontent with the other teachers. But there is no time to waste. I have to figure our how to get another pair of Chacos down here.
The funny part is that I had this debate 4 months ago when determining how many pairs to bring down. Hindsight being 20/20 and all I should have just brought them all, but I didn't see as clearly back then. Silly me, I brought my newest pair thinking they would last longer and I wouldn't have any problems. HA! Gotcha sucka! Honduras ruins everything.
Back to damage control. Steph's dad is coming down on Friday, that is just 2 days away so I need to think fast. I decide to call my parents and rush deliver my sandals up to Massachusetts and hope they arrive in time to make it into Steph's dad's baggage.
I called my own father during school but was interrupted too many times by second graders storming the library and then a 1st grade cout d'etat of the computer lab. This does not bode well. So I send an email with all the necessary info to both biological parents in hopes our Balser army can spring to action and my feet don't become gangrenous and fall off. Now I wait. Until I can get home and call home to confirm.
I arrive home to 2 skype voicemails from the greatest mother of all time. First message: Calling Steph's dad to determine feasibility of disaster aide emergency drop. Second Message: No way, Jose.
Depressed and dejected I accept a skype call from dearest mom and she explains her reasoning upon which I begin to tear up. So we continue our conversation for long enough for B-squared (Billy Balser, for the unfamiliar) to walk in the door and immediately come up with a genius plan to go to Fed-Ex right now and, as we say down south, "get 'er done." He springs into action. Just as fast as he came into the skype conversation he was whisked away by his paternal instincts to rescue his young cub.
I feel relieved that I will be getting my Chacos and go to report to Steph about the whole ordeal when I mention a joke my mom made about the street she lived on. Steph laughs, but then replies, "Wait, that is not the name of my street."
Quickly back to the line just in time to catch my dad after he has already dropped off the package. I give him the proper address and hope that it all comes out in the wash. Now I just wait here patiently for my golden slippers.
Way to go Ma and Pop!
This morning on my walk to school, approximately 25 steps from my starting point, the worst possible thing happened to me: my Chacos broke.
Let's not even consider that I didn't see this coming and cut straight to the devastation. I was shoeless and it was a bad omen to start the day. I continued on my walk to school half muttering, half screaming obscenities to myself about how I am now without my absolute favorite footwear in the world. The best parts about Honduras: I can eat a great meal for less than a dollar and it is always Chaco season.
I show up at school and take a closer examination at my failed foot attire and begin to share my discontent with the other teachers. But there is no time to waste. I have to figure our how to get another pair of Chacos down here.
The funny part is that I had this debate 4 months ago when determining how many pairs to bring down. Hindsight being 20/20 and all I should have just brought them all, but I didn't see as clearly back then. Silly me, I brought my newest pair thinking they would last longer and I wouldn't have any problems. HA! Gotcha sucka! Honduras ruins everything.
Back to damage control. Steph's dad is coming down on Friday, that is just 2 days away so I need to think fast. I decide to call my parents and rush deliver my sandals up to Massachusetts and hope they arrive in time to make it into Steph's dad's baggage.
I called my own father during school but was interrupted too many times by second graders storming the library and then a 1st grade cout d'etat of the computer lab. This does not bode well. So I send an email with all the necessary info to both biological parents in hopes our Balser army can spring to action and my feet don't become gangrenous and fall off. Now I wait. Until I can get home and call home to confirm.
I arrive home to 2 skype voicemails from the greatest mother of all time. First message: Calling Steph's dad to determine feasibility of disaster aide emergency drop. Second Message: No way, Jose.
Depressed and dejected I accept a skype call from dearest mom and she explains her reasoning upon which I begin to tear up. So we continue our conversation for long enough for B-squared (Billy Balser, for the unfamiliar) to walk in the door and immediately come up with a genius plan to go to Fed-Ex right now and, as we say down south, "get 'er done." He springs into action. Just as fast as he came into the skype conversation he was whisked away by his paternal instincts to rescue his young cub.
I feel relieved that I will be getting my Chacos and go to report to Steph about the whole ordeal when I mention a joke my mom made about the street she lived on. Steph laughs, but then replies, "Wait, that is not the name of my street."
Quickly back to the line just in time to catch my dad after he has already dropped off the package. I give him the proper address and hope that it all comes out in the wash. Now I just wait here patiently for my golden slippers.
Way to go Ma and Pop!
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Scary Sense of Normalcy
I have this long post drafted and saved somewhere in the abyss of the "interweb" about how horrible my week was last week, but as it has passed and too much time has gone by to finish up the post, I may just throw it up here and have it stop mid-thought. The long and short of it is my class is completely disrespectful to each other and to me and they had a horrible week last week. But during this horrible week, they did accomplish some good things and arrived at our class prize which was shaving my hair into a mohawk. So I have a mohawk and my class is doing better this week.
But this post is neither about mohawks, nor about poorly behaving children, but rather that harsh realization I had today that everything around me has become completely, utterly normal.
There have been some occurrences in the past few days that have really brought this to light, but it was not until today that I actually gave it credence. It happened when I was sitting on-duty over the soccer fields during lunch and nothing surprised me. The same boys as always were playing soccer. Kids were running all around playing the same tag game they have since the first week of school nearly 2 months ago and still not being bored of it (and I am still not sure what the rules of the game are; this is no normal game of tag). The same 7th grade girls eat lunch in the hallway everyday. The uniforms the students wear no longer weird me out. Everything has settled into a state of normalcy.
I know the best place to get baleadas. (This is not a fact but opinion considering there are about a million places to do this and for the most part they all taste the same.)
I have a fruit guy that gives me a good price.
The ladies at the supermarket don't really need to scan my groceries, they already know what I am buying. Yet, they have never asked me my name.
I found Honduran Lempiras in my pocket the other day. This is the true indication that I live here. For only can money survive the wash when you live in that country.
I have even come to expect that when I turn on the shower, it will not just be cold, but freezing, and it doesn't bother me that much.
While all of this is great to have and makes me feel comfortable, it is still a little scary. To feel so comfortably disconnected from a world I am so familiar with is slightly scary to me. Or at least enough so to think that you all would want to read about it. Life in Honduras has become normal. I guess this is a good thing, but it still freaks me out.
But this post is neither about mohawks, nor about poorly behaving children, but rather that harsh realization I had today that everything around me has become completely, utterly normal.
There have been some occurrences in the past few days that have really brought this to light, but it was not until today that I actually gave it credence. It happened when I was sitting on-duty over the soccer fields during lunch and nothing surprised me. The same boys as always were playing soccer. Kids were running all around playing the same tag game they have since the first week of school nearly 2 months ago and still not being bored of it (and I am still not sure what the rules of the game are; this is no normal game of tag). The same 7th grade girls eat lunch in the hallway everyday. The uniforms the students wear no longer weird me out. Everything has settled into a state of normalcy.
I know the best place to get baleadas. (This is not a fact but opinion considering there are about a million places to do this and for the most part they all taste the same.)
I have a fruit guy that gives me a good price.
The ladies at the supermarket don't really need to scan my groceries, they already know what I am buying. Yet, they have never asked me my name.
I found Honduran Lempiras in my pocket the other day. This is the true indication that I live here. For only can money survive the wash when you live in that country.
I have even come to expect that when I turn on the shower, it will not just be cold, but freezing, and it doesn't bother me that much.
While all of this is great to have and makes me feel comfortable, it is still a little scary. To feel so comfortably disconnected from a world I am so familiar with is slightly scary to me. Or at least enough so to think that you all would want to read about it. Life in Honduras has become normal. I guess this is a good thing, but it still freaks me out.
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