It's taken me 79 days of virtually zero homesickness or adjustment to finally crash into the reality of Turkey. I needed some space tonight, and, after work, ate dinner alone at Gazi's restaurant. It's right outside the door up to our flat. I walked home in the rain--soaked for 45 minutes and needing a change of clothes--so I went upstairs first to put on dry things and grab my English/Turkish dictionary.
No one paid me a lot of attention for awhile. Gazi was charming as always, and Müjdat was sweet and chipper as he made my food. But as I sat there, watching everyone chatter about daily life in Turkish, an overwhelming feeling of sadness seeped up from somewhere inside me. I have no idea what it was, and it seemed to come from nowhere. Like I'd accidentally stumbled into a fresh feeling.
I nearly cried, right there in the restaurant. I started thinking about how we are the language that we speak. In a fundamental, inextricable way, I am the English language, and I am deeply, deeply, deeply American. Yes, attitude and spirit can be expressed through actions and behavior, but so much of us is language. There is a feeling of standing outside of someone, of seeing the outside of a house, or a cave, or somewhere deep and intricate, and being unable to enter. With no words, no verb tenses, no imperative, no adverbs, no inflection, no mastery of a language, I have no way to get inside another person. And then I thought about how we are only as strong as the language that we know. I know some numbers. Some polite expressions and only the most basic of understandings of how to turn an adjective into a statement about myself (i.e. I am sick; I am cold; I am good). But what am I beyond that? Little.
After awhile, Müjdat finished making pide and sat down with me. Using the dictionary and napkins, we plotted a conversation. It began with me writing the word "silver", and moved to sugar, and then the Turkish equivalent. We talked about our families, drawing pictures for the number of children (we are both the third children, but his parents had four more after him). I drew pictures of California and the United States--he showed me where he was born in Kars. We learned the months in order to establish that we are both 23, our birthdays in July, 12 days apart. There was lots of page flipping, and dead ends, and mis-translations and second attempts, but with nouns and horrible verb conjugation, we talked about what our parents do.
It is so deeply unsatisfying to communicate in this stilted, rough, ineloquent manner. To be hypersensitive to the reality of being encircled by the high, impenetrable linguistic and cultural barrier. To realize that I am light years away from being able to understand Turks on their own turf.
There is a sort of sadness that fills me. I only recognize it as a nostalgia for the past, but that description doesn't fit it properly. See, even my own language is slipping. I can't tell if I miss the States or not--not enough to wish myself away from Turkey, or to wish that the time here would pass more quickly. Maybe it's really that I long for a future--an ability to speak Turkish, to find myself here. I long for a me that doesn't exist yet. But I think I also long for a me that won't ever really exist. I can learn Turkish, but it would always be a second skin, a different personality, a different me.
I am the English language.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
It's Turkish Food From Now On.
Sometimes it's better to just miss what you can't have rather than torment yourself with a cheap imitation.
Fahri, my Turkish teacher slash ultra-generous host around Turkey took me to Ephesus (see photos on site). On our way back to Izmir we had dinner in a nice restaurant called Tex Mex tonight. At first blush it seemed promising. When I saw the description of chicken tacos (sour cream, guacamole and cheddar cheese--all of which are rare in Turkish markets), my mouth started to water.
Today's travel moral: Don't count your chickens before they hatch.
The ultra-posh ambiance of Tex Mex (glass wall with a view of Izmir's glittering lights, two waiters per table, carefully-groomed maitre d', plush chairs, etcetra) should have been a tip-off that I would not be eating Mexican food as I knew it. Tacos and burritos are meant to be consumed in quantity off of ugly, dirty plates in scuzzy hole-in-the-wall joints where you might (but never do) get food poisoning.
When my tacos arrived they were in the middle of a pristine square white plate, delicately perched on a bed of shredded iceburg lettuce. Fahri had ordered the same thing, and I realized in a split second that I should not, repeat NOT, pick the taco up and bite into it. Forget it if that's how you actually eat a taco. This is Turkey. This is an elite restaurant, with people celebrating their anniversary at a specially-decorated table a few feet away. Some American girl chomping through a taco and would not improve Tex Mex's reputation. So, following Fahri's example, I picked up my knife and fork and delicately consumed my taco's filling, then tackled the remaining corn shell. All the while thinking: What the fuck?!?!
Two strips of semi-melted American cheese were criss-crossed as garnish on each taco--I guess you can call whatever you want cheddar cheese, as long as you live in a place where no one has any idea what the hell it really is. There was definitely no guacamole in either of my tacos. The chicken was flavored with BBQ sauce. (Hence the Tex in the Mex?) Oh, Chipotle, how I yearn for you.
I kept laughing about how absurd it was, but just passed it off as me delighting in the food when Fahri asked what was up. "Yes, it's so good. Yes, it's almost like being back in America." I was not about to bitch and whine since the tacos cost 12.50YTL.
Add it to the list of things to do upon resurfacing in America: Mexican food like whoa.
Fahri, my Turkish teacher slash ultra-generous host around Turkey took me to Ephesus (see photos on site). On our way back to Izmir we had dinner in a nice restaurant called Tex Mex tonight. At first blush it seemed promising. When I saw the description of chicken tacos (sour cream, guacamole and cheddar cheese--all of which are rare in Turkish markets), my mouth started to water.
Today's travel moral: Don't count your chickens before they hatch.
The ultra-posh ambiance of Tex Mex (glass wall with a view of Izmir's glittering lights, two waiters per table, carefully-groomed maitre d', plush chairs, etcetra) should have been a tip-off that I would not be eating Mexican food as I knew it. Tacos and burritos are meant to be consumed in quantity off of ugly, dirty plates in scuzzy hole-in-the-wall joints where you might (but never do) get food poisoning.
When my tacos arrived they were in the middle of a pristine square white plate, delicately perched on a bed of shredded iceburg lettuce. Fahri had ordered the same thing, and I realized in a split second that I should not, repeat NOT, pick the taco up and bite into it. Forget it if that's how you actually eat a taco. This is Turkey. This is an elite restaurant, with people celebrating their anniversary at a specially-decorated table a few feet away. Some American girl chomping through a taco and would not improve Tex Mex's reputation. So, following Fahri's example, I picked up my knife and fork and delicately consumed my taco's filling, then tackled the remaining corn shell. All the while thinking: What the fuck?!?!
Two strips of semi-melted American cheese were criss-crossed as garnish on each taco--I guess you can call whatever you want cheddar cheese, as long as you live in a place where no one has any idea what the hell it really is. There was definitely no guacamole in either of my tacos. The chicken was flavored with BBQ sauce. (Hence the Tex in the Mex?) Oh, Chipotle, how I yearn for you.
I kept laughing about how absurd it was, but just passed it off as me delighting in the food when Fahri asked what was up. "Yes, it's so good. Yes, it's almost like being back in America." I was not about to bitch and whine since the tacos cost 12.50YTL.
Add it to the list of things to do upon resurfacing in America: Mexican food like whoa.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Staying Alive, Staying Alive
Teaching—Black Like My Soul
Ugh teaching is brutal! I got complaints from my Pre-Int class a couple weeks in a row—they thought I was doing an unsatisfactory job presenting grammar, but then they all scored amazingly well on the exam they had just taken. Despite the good results, my class was observed today to try to identify and remedy my perceived shortcomings. BUT! According to the Rules of the Universe, this means that a mediocre lesson became worse—imagine a glowering, Director of Studies looming like a white elephant in the corner of the room—only instead of being white, he was clad entirely in black and therefore incredibly, incredibly intimidating. Sort of like the Grim Reaper of Lesson Failure.
My students clammed up and kept sneaking looks at the DoS out of the corner of their eye. As a result, my energy plummeted, and from there, the lesson just slid into an abyss. But wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my DoS left, students perked up and we were able to have a good time again. *shakes fist angrily at the god of irony* It’s ok, though. I’m being melodramatic. Well, sort of. Truthfully, I’m learning to climb out of failure relatively quickly. I have to. I have too many lessons to teach to sit around feeling like a reject.
Teaching in a language school is challenging because, especially with the economy going bezerk and students wanting their money’s worth, there’s so much stress to get it right. Constantly. I’m working my ass off, and it only seems to get me so far. Though I have nearly impeccable rapport with my students, I think that my age has ended up being part of the reason that this one class has questioned my authority. *sigh sigh sigh*
Another One Bites the Dust
A combination of factors (long hours, poor food selection in Izmir, crap wage, being the only young guy, etc, etc) has led George has to quit and go back to The Island. Come December or January, Sondra and I will be inhabiting our flat all by our lonesomes. Of course, George must be replaced by a new teacher, but hopefully whoever it is won’t live with us. One guy being interviewed right now already lives in Izmir and has a flat—and an unlikable smoking habit. This means that my food and travel companion is disappearing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I clearly need to make friends.
Holiday. Just in the nick of time.
In a couple weeks all the teachers get off four days for holiday. George and I are going to Kapadokya. We have our bus tickets. We’re leaving at night on Sunday December 7th and arriving Monday morning. We’ll explore the vast and wonderful world of Kapadokya until Thursday night when we’ll get on another bus and be whisked back to Izmir in time to teach classes Friday afternoon. A little risky, I know, especially considering the snow, but it’s our one opportunity to actually get far enough away from Izmir, and we’re taking it. I don’t care if I’m dead on my feet from exhaustion. I will see something beautiful and awe-inspiring.
Ben Türkçe ögrenmek istiyorum! (I want to learn Turkish!)
I have begun studying Turkish. One of the teachers at school, Nigel, has lived in Izmir for almost 15 years and has a substantial social network. When we were out getting beers a couple weeks ago, I met one of his Turkish friends, Fahri (far-EE), whose English is quite good. I mentioned that I wanted to learn Turkish—seriously, not just enough to order something in a restaurant—and Fahri decided to become my teacher.
The lessons are essentially free, although I do provide him substantial opportunity to practice his English whilst regaling me with endless stories of cultural clashes on his business trips to China. He’s not particularly interested in Americans—I tried talking politics with him but the subject immediately went back to some anecdote about China—so I get a little bored during his monologues, but he is able to explain Turkish grammar. I can’t complain. Fahri also has REAL, AUTHENTIC Turkish friends, who invited me to their home, provided me with slippers to wear when I removed my shoes, served me wonderful tea, coffee, cookies, Turkish Delight, and more little biscuits.
In short, Turks are every bit as generous as I was led to believe, and then some.
I have managed to find some time at night to study Turkish over the past week. Flash cards with adjectives live in my jacket pocket and I study on my walk to work. I am actually learning words and try to practice with REAL, AUTHENTIC Turks whenever possible. It has become a Saturday ritual for us flatmates to eat dinner at the restaurant right outside the entrance to our flat. The owner Gazi (GAH-zee) is super generous, often giving us extra mezes (appetizers) and special deserts to nibble on. Some distant male family relations are his chefs and they consistently make us amazing food and try to talk with us. None of us can speak the other’s language particularly well—if grammar were acrobatics, we would all be falling on the mat, too crippled to get back up to the high beam. But we muddle through with lots of smiling and head nodding to gloss over the attempts to perform grammatical miracles.
Some days I think how it’s going to be a long year. On the other hand, I’ve already been here for over two months…
Ugh teaching is brutal! I got complaints from my Pre-Int class a couple weeks in a row—they thought I was doing an unsatisfactory job presenting grammar, but then they all scored amazingly well on the exam they had just taken. Despite the good results, my class was observed today to try to identify and remedy my perceived shortcomings. BUT! According to the Rules of the Universe, this means that a mediocre lesson became worse—imagine a glowering, Director of Studies looming like a white elephant in the corner of the room—only instead of being white, he was clad entirely in black and therefore incredibly, incredibly intimidating. Sort of like the Grim Reaper of Lesson Failure.
My students clammed up and kept sneaking looks at the DoS out of the corner of their eye. As a result, my energy plummeted, and from there, the lesson just slid into an abyss. But wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my DoS left, students perked up and we were able to have a good time again. *shakes fist angrily at the god of irony* It’s ok, though. I’m being melodramatic. Well, sort of. Truthfully, I’m learning to climb out of failure relatively quickly. I have to. I have too many lessons to teach to sit around feeling like a reject.
Teaching in a language school is challenging because, especially with the economy going bezerk and students wanting their money’s worth, there’s so much stress to get it right. Constantly. I’m working my ass off, and it only seems to get me so far. Though I have nearly impeccable rapport with my students, I think that my age has ended up being part of the reason that this one class has questioned my authority. *sigh sigh sigh*
Another One Bites the Dust
A combination of factors (long hours, poor food selection in Izmir, crap wage, being the only young guy, etc, etc) has led George has to quit and go back to The Island. Come December or January, Sondra and I will be inhabiting our flat all by our lonesomes. Of course, George must be replaced by a new teacher, but hopefully whoever it is won’t live with us. One guy being interviewed right now already lives in Izmir and has a flat—and an unlikable smoking habit. This means that my food and travel companion is disappearing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I clearly need to make friends.
Holiday. Just in the nick of time.
In a couple weeks all the teachers get off four days for holiday. George and I are going to Kapadokya. We have our bus tickets. We’re leaving at night on Sunday December 7th and arriving Monday morning. We’ll explore the vast and wonderful world of Kapadokya until Thursday night when we’ll get on another bus and be whisked back to Izmir in time to teach classes Friday afternoon. A little risky, I know, especially considering the snow, but it’s our one opportunity to actually get far enough away from Izmir, and we’re taking it. I don’t care if I’m dead on my feet from exhaustion. I will see something beautiful and awe-inspiring.
Ben Türkçe ögrenmek istiyorum! (I want to learn Turkish!)
I have begun studying Turkish. One of the teachers at school, Nigel, has lived in Izmir for almost 15 years and has a substantial social network. When we were out getting beers a couple weeks ago, I met one of his Turkish friends, Fahri (far-EE), whose English is quite good. I mentioned that I wanted to learn Turkish—seriously, not just enough to order something in a restaurant—and Fahri decided to become my teacher.
The lessons are essentially free, although I do provide him substantial opportunity to practice his English whilst regaling me with endless stories of cultural clashes on his business trips to China. He’s not particularly interested in Americans—I tried talking politics with him but the subject immediately went back to some anecdote about China—so I get a little bored during his monologues, but he is able to explain Turkish grammar. I can’t complain. Fahri also has REAL, AUTHENTIC Turkish friends, who invited me to their home, provided me with slippers to wear when I removed my shoes, served me wonderful tea, coffee, cookies, Turkish Delight, and more little biscuits.
In short, Turks are every bit as generous as I was led to believe, and then some.
I have managed to find some time at night to study Turkish over the past week. Flash cards with adjectives live in my jacket pocket and I study on my walk to work. I am actually learning words and try to practice with REAL, AUTHENTIC Turks whenever possible. It has become a Saturday ritual for us flatmates to eat dinner at the restaurant right outside the entrance to our flat. The owner Gazi (GAH-zee) is super generous, often giving us extra mezes (appetizers) and special deserts to nibble on. Some distant male family relations are his chefs and they consistently make us amazing food and try to talk with us. None of us can speak the other’s language particularly well—if grammar were acrobatics, we would all be falling on the mat, too crippled to get back up to the high beam. But we muddle through with lots of smiling and head nodding to gloss over the attempts to perform grammatical miracles.
Some days I think how it’s going to be a long year. On the other hand, I’ve already been here for over two months…
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Hair Cuts
Yesterday George finally got the guts to get his haircut in Turkey. He's been whinging (British English: to complain) for weeks about his unruly mop. He asked Sondra and I to accompany him. We said yes, of course. He didn't want to go alone. I wouldn't want to go alone either. We prepared for the excursion by sifting through my dictionary and finding some useful words: "a hair cut; three centimeters; thick hair; to make sparse." George wrote them on a scrap of paper and stuffed them in his pocket.
The three of us piled into the lift and slowly descended to the street level. We walked out the door in the lobby and turned left immediately to the barber shop that is right next to our apartment entrance. George insisted on going here because it's good for "community relations." George did most of the talking (which really just consisted of showing the barber the scrap of paper with Turkish) but Sondra and I provided moral support. The barber shop was otherwise empty, and our arrival displaced the barber's friend from his seat behind the hair cutting chairs. Sondra and I were offered the chairs and the friend stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching traffic pass. Women don't hang out in barber shops, we guessed, and soon enough we knew why.
The Turkish barber shop is a bastion of male secrets. After an immaculate hair cut, George's barber wadded cotton on the tips of his scissors, doused the cotton in some purple goo, took out his BIC lighter and ignited the mighty swab, and--before anyone realized what was happening--singed the Offensive Man Hair off George's ears. Sondra was better at hiding her amusement but I was dissolving in laughter. The hilarity increased when the barber required George to lean back against a pillow that had popped up from the back of the chair, so that he could trim his nostril hair. Nope, not done yet. The eyebrows had yet to be given a quick clip.
After the barber had shampooed George's entire head (and face) as he sat hunched forward over a sink basin, his hair was towel-blotted and blow-dried into a puff that looked like a baby bird. Then came the L'Oreal styling creme, and finally an application of standard Turkish lemon-scented cologne. The barber charged 10YTL (which is a miserable $6.6 at the current exchange rate) for about 45 minutes of tender loving care.
I just hope that women's salons don't singe your ear hair off... I might put off a hair cut for even longer than I'd originally planned.
The three of us piled into the lift and slowly descended to the street level. We walked out the door in the lobby and turned left immediately to the barber shop that is right next to our apartment entrance. George insisted on going here because it's good for "community relations." George did most of the talking (which really just consisted of showing the barber the scrap of paper with Turkish) but Sondra and I provided moral support. The barber shop was otherwise empty, and our arrival displaced the barber's friend from his seat behind the hair cutting chairs. Sondra and I were offered the chairs and the friend stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching traffic pass. Women don't hang out in barber shops, we guessed, and soon enough we knew why.
The Turkish barber shop is a bastion of male secrets. After an immaculate hair cut, George's barber wadded cotton on the tips of his scissors, doused the cotton in some purple goo, took out his BIC lighter and ignited the mighty swab, and--before anyone realized what was happening--singed the Offensive Man Hair off George's ears. Sondra was better at hiding her amusement but I was dissolving in laughter. The hilarity increased when the barber required George to lean back against a pillow that had popped up from the back of the chair, so that he could trim his nostril hair. Nope, not done yet. The eyebrows had yet to be given a quick clip.
After the barber had shampooed George's entire head (and face) as he sat hunched forward over a sink basin, his hair was towel-blotted and blow-dried into a puff that looked like a baby bird. Then came the L'Oreal styling creme, and finally an application of standard Turkish lemon-scented cologne. The barber charged 10YTL (which is a miserable $6.6 at the current exchange rate) for about 45 minutes of tender loving care.
I just hope that women's salons don't singe your ear hair off... I might put off a hair cut for even longer than I'd originally planned.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Obama Victory!
Obama Victory!
I was wandering through morning dream land before 7am when I rolled over and heard clapping and cheering coming from the TV. I leaped out of bed and ran to the living room. Streaming live to the world--the BBC's coverage of the American election. Obama had won. Already. I was so excited I hopped around the living room (Kenyans were hopping around their towns, too, in celebration--it's a global party!).
Then I sat on the couch and was enraptured by Obama's live acceptance speech to Chicago. I laughed when he made a shout-out to "all of you overseas, huddled around radios." Not quite... But I was ever so huddled, ever so stunned, ever, ever, ever so proud. My two favorite parts: 1) Obama telling his daughters that he loved them and that they had really earned the new puppy that was going with them to the White House; 2) when Biden's family came out and 90-year old Mama Biden stood on the stage with the "Oh my God, I can't fucking believe I'm here" look.
It is surreal to me, too, but for different reasons--this world is becoming smaller than it has been. Technology is so incredible. I've been following it for weeks on satellite TV and I watched the acceptance speech live thousands of miles from home. I logged onto Facebook soon after I found out the election results and probably 50 or 60 of my friends had updated their current status to say something about the fact that Obama had just won the presidency. The Internet and the youth vote are going to change the way politics happen in this country--they already have.
A lot of people are euphoric, perhaps too euphoric given the limitations of the wars, the global financial crisis, our own national debt, the climate crisis, and on and on. But... We'll see. We've got eight years.
Manifesting the Law
My students were better behaved last night than they have been. A few strategies:
I was wandering through morning dream land before 7am when I rolled over and heard clapping and cheering coming from the TV. I leaped out of bed and ran to the living room. Streaming live to the world--the BBC's coverage of the American election. Obama had won. Already. I was so excited I hopped around the living room (Kenyans were hopping around their towns, too, in celebration--it's a global party!).
Then I sat on the couch and was enraptured by Obama's live acceptance speech to Chicago. I laughed when he made a shout-out to "all of you overseas, huddled around radios." Not quite... But I was ever so huddled, ever so stunned, ever, ever, ever so proud. My two favorite parts: 1) Obama telling his daughters that he loved them and that they had really earned the new puppy that was going with them to the White House; 2) when Biden's family came out and 90-year old Mama Biden stood on the stage with the "Oh my God, I can't fucking believe I'm here" look.
It is surreal to me, too, but for different reasons--this world is becoming smaller than it has been. Technology is so incredible. I've been following it for weeks on satellite TV and I watched the acceptance speech live thousands of miles from home. I logged onto Facebook soon after I found out the election results and probably 50 or 60 of my friends had updated their current status to say something about the fact that Obama had just won the presidency. The Internet and the youth vote are going to change the way politics happen in this country--they already have.
A lot of people are euphoric, perhaps too euphoric given the limitations of the wars, the global financial crisis, our own national debt, the climate crisis, and on and on. But... We'll see. We've got eight years.
Manifesting the Law
My students were better behaved last night than they have been. A few strategies:
- not being as friendly towards them at the beginning of the lesson;
- hovering in their space rather than towards the front of the classroom and standing closer to them when I told them not to speak Turkish whilst giving long, reprimanding stares;
- determining which students would work with each other to break up the perpetrators;
- hanging out with them during the 10 minute break (when they are allowed to speak Turkish) and allowing them to translate for each other as they asked me questions about America and my time in Turkey; upon returning to the classroom I said Turkish on break was fine but now it's back to English.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Becoming the Law
Today will be eventful. I'm biting my nails about the American election. I plan on waking up tomorrow morning and watching CNN's constant election coverage with Sondra and George. But I have to finish the week first--which currently includes a battle between me and my Elementary students.
The six of them are becoming a pain in my ass. Of the two men in class, one of them is a fatherly policeman who often chatters in Turkish; the other is eye candy and is making ripples (I am pretty sure that my perception of flirting transcends the language barrier--this one girl sits next to him and bats her eyes and giggles in Turkish). The students had been speaking some Turkish, translating things I was saying in class. It hadn't really become a problem until last night when they got more disrespectful about it and laughter ensued--it's no longer acceptable but it's like trying to put out a fire that's already started. Tonight I'm dragging out the hose. Normally I jump around and act and make them laugh--anything to get the English across. I'm at war with my age, my gender, my friendliness, my inexperience at telling people what to do and exacting results.
I've got to dig around in my closet and find the Stern Bitch clothes that match my new attitude.
The six of them are becoming a pain in my ass. Of the two men in class, one of them is a fatherly policeman who often chatters in Turkish; the other is eye candy and is making ripples (I am pretty sure that my perception of flirting transcends the language barrier--this one girl sits next to him and bats her eyes and giggles in Turkish). The students had been speaking some Turkish, translating things I was saying in class. It hadn't really become a problem until last night when they got more disrespectful about it and laughter ensued--it's no longer acceptable but it's like trying to put out a fire that's already started. Tonight I'm dragging out the hose. Normally I jump around and act and make them laugh--anything to get the English across. I'm at war with my age, my gender, my friendliness, my inexperience at telling people what to do and exacting results.
I've got to dig around in my closet and find the Stern Bitch clothes that match my new attitude.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
American Elections in Izmir
It is Sunday night. On Tuesday, America will know who its next president will be. Well. Not likely. I predict some last-minute drama about hanging chads, faulty voting machines and whatnot. But regardless, we're all pretty damn excited over here in Turkey. Sondra, George and I are planning on plunking in front of our TV Wednesday to watch the BBC's election coverage and drink beer--we're going to need it to either celebrate or mourn the outcome.
My students have been asking me about the election. Even the elementary students who can hardly string words together: "Teacher. President? Obama? McCain?" Like I can answer and have you understand me, so I just shrug and shake my head with a huge grin in my face. In the staff room today we were talking about the election and another teacher mentioned that when he organized a class competition and asked the two groups of students to choose team names for themselves, "Obama" and "McCain" were the picks. So there you have it.
America, the world is watching.
My students have been asking me about the election. Even the elementary students who can hardly string words together: "Teacher. President? Obama? McCain?" Like I can answer and have you understand me, so I just shrug and shake my head with a huge grin in my face. In the staff room today we were talking about the election and another teacher mentioned that when he organized a class competition and asked the two groups of students to choose team names for themselves, "Obama" and "McCain" were the picks. So there you have it.
America, the world is watching.
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