Bogotá

I recently read a few snippets from a book called Una Gringa en Bogotá.  Ought to be the story of my life.   I’m a gringa, and I live in Bogotá.  It was even written by a Fulbright scholar.  I have no criticism of the book, just that it struck me how differently she – the author,  June Carolyn Erlick –  and I experienced something so similar.

She describes having felt something in her stomach, something in her soul.  Love at first sight.  She mentions the courtesy of people on buses, and the absence of stray dogs and street trash.  As I read it, I was impressed with her gift with words and the way she described the enchantment she experienced, but…

Bogotá and I did not experience love at first sight.  No magic.  No spark.  Neither she for me nor I for her.  Bogotá for me is more like a cat, a mangy cat.  This mangy cat is not for everyone.  Many will cast it off at first sight, thought, or sound; many will try to love it, but never truly will; and many will watch over the cat temporarily and decide nothin’ great, nothin’ terrible, just another mangy cat.

But I like mangy cats, in the best sort of way.  They’re the best kinds really.  You may have to work for their love, but once it’s there, it’s the strongest, best kind of appreciation and respect.

There’s no spectacle, no show, no hip-hoorah.  It’s a city of people living, working, and studying.  The streets aren’t terribly clean, it’s a game of push and shove to get on the Transmilenio (public transportation system), and taxi drivers are frighteningly untrustworthy, whether you’re a foreigner or not.  I wouldn’t call it high fashion or couture.  The city is riddled with corruption; the mayor just got tossed out for precisely that.  But there are people here, around 9 million actually, who need this city, this mangy cat, because unlike their hometowns, Bogotá is a beacon of opportunity.  It has a little bit of everything; that’s why it’s so mangy!

Bogotá is a mangy cat with a soul that runs deep.  I wish more people would give it a chance.  Cities like Bogotá are those that keep the world running.  I see a bright future here: for this city, for this country.  I love this mangy cat of mine.

Making a Difference

If my contribution to La Universidad Libre (where I’ve been teaching for the last 10 months) could be measured in chocolates and goodies, I’d say I contributed rather a lot.  So far this week my students have absolutely showered  me with everything from arroz con leche to hand-written cards to endless cakes and chocolate bars.  Just what I need right; my dress for the wedding in June is what size?   

Wednesday

Unfortunately, chocolate is not a legitimate currency for measuring impact, change, or knowledge exchange.  Helping someone can be a tricky business.  Good intentions are not sufficient.  Sometimes we make a huge effort, we feel that we´ve done well, but actual notable change either in performance, behavior, or some economic statistic goes unachieved, falls short.  It`s like the old cliché of teaching someone to fish rather than fishing for them.  But even a detailed instruction manual, a face-to-face demonstration, or 2 semesters teaching still may not be enough. 

This is one thing that has always frustrated me about volunteerism and non-profit work.  Sometimes, despite everything, it can be a lot of “feel good” and technically not so much “do good.” 

So has my being here for a year made a difference?  Any difference?  That´s what Fulbright gave me the grant for right? 

Well I haven´t been sitting around on my ass that´s for sure.  I`ve poured hours, days, weeks, months of my time into “doing good,” but is there change? 

I honestly don`t know.  I haven`t published anything official (yet), didn`t affect any large-scale organizational change within my university, didn`t change any student`s life, didn’t come close to alleviating poverty, didn`t didn’t didn’t!  

 But I did something.  The following thought sounds annoying to me as it toggles in my brain, as I think it, as I type it.  But it rings true.  Perhaps my greatest contribution this year has been character.  I’ve tried to lead by example in showing my students to have a positive attitude about knowledge and learning, about English and opportunity, about critical thought and challenge.  I’m not a trained teacher, but I have a genuine love for school, the acquisition of knowledge, and the conscientiousness of being a student.  How I transferred the importance of that through grammar, vocabulary, and oral exams, I can’t be sure.  But I think I did. 

  

I “feel good” about my efforts, now let’s just hope I’ve “done good” to boot.

TEACHER MOMENT!

I had a teacher moment today, and I feel impelled to share.  I hate hearing over and over that you really know you love being a teacher when you see the look in a student’s eyes that they understood something - finally got it.  It’s cliché.  But something similar happened to me today and now I guess I have to join the force of the cliché.

 

My students have class from 4-6pm, but they were required to attend some presentations today in the auditorium until 5pm at which point they could leave, go home, chau, hasta la vista baby.  But a group of about 15 of them found me (wandering around looking for a teacher) and asked if we could still have class from five to six.  My reaction… what???  I couldn’t believe it!  My students were given the option to take the afternoon off and they wanted class with me.   And they actively sought me out to ask for it!  Again, what?   Yayyyyyy!  I was so pleased.  We had a little debate and I had them ask questions about modern expressions etc, nothing crazy, but how cool?  I’m the biggest school-loving, teacher’s pet ever and I don’t think even I would have done that.  

I love being a teacher today.

Nosotras Corremos: Nike 5k

Official time recorder chip thingy

Most unfortunately I couldn’t be with my mom this Mother’s Day.  I still wanted to do something “girlie” though.  Get in the spirit at least.  I signed up to run Nike’s 5k called Nosotras Corremos, which translates roughly to We Run, but its feminine, so it’s more like Us Ladies Run.  It was Daniel’s idea actually.  Given that society in many parts of Latin America is still quite male chauvinistic, I was intrigued by the idea of an all women’s race.  Would anyone go?   

Struggle-ville

Every culture has a generic idea of what’s considered the ideal body type.  I like to believe it’s all in the eye of the beholder, but there is one too many psychology studies to prove that a strong general consensus about beauty does exist.  The standards in Colombia are pretty darn high.  Medellin, the second largest city in the country, is the plastic surgery capital of the world.  It only costs around $500 to get a standard boob-job, so lots of women go for it.  A picture is worth a thousand words.   Check out this mannequin.  Need I say more?   And this is standard.

Wowzas!

Ready to Run

The shirt they gave out for the event was adorable, a highly motivating factor, and they almost immediately ran out of Smalls.  Figures, I thought, women here tend to like unnaturally tight clothing.  And I bet everyone will show up in a push-up bra to boot.  As you can see, I was excited for the run, but fairly pessimistic in my expectations.

Celebrating in an Irish Pub afterwards

Race day came and went.  I finished in 29 minutes, 361 out of 2,000, a near glacial pace, but hey, I blame the altitude.  (Ha.) Mostly, I was impressed; proved wrong.  Two thousand women at 7am on a Sunday (Mother’s Day nonetheless) is a reputable turnout.  And they were movin’!  Sure there were a few classics with booty shorts, black push-up bras, and the shirt rolled way up, but they were the minority.  It was a genuine, heart-felt, girl power experience. 

Well done Nike.  Well done Bogota.

Post Race - lookin' pretty rough

FAIL BLOG 2

Lost in Translation: Given its name, this little hot spot is always hopping!  But only because they have delicious breads and sweets.  It´s actually just a bakery.  The Spanish verb “to bake” is “hornear.”

Body taking a beating:  I´m learning to play squash (a strange derivative of racquetball).  I felt like my arm might fall off after just 3 games to 15 and my cute knee is pictured below.  It´s not a game in which people fall…  I also got eaten alive by mosquitoes in Yaguará and I´m really pale, so my legs are a sight to see.

Before and After: Went to see Millionarios (Colombian team I root for) play Nacional (Colombian team I definitely don´t root for) yesterday.  They were tied for first and had long since been rivals.  Somehow Daniel and I ended up sitting right under the fans who brought fire extinguishers full of colored spray of some sort to shower over the fans and field at the start of the game.  It was pretty cool, but most likely looked much better from afar.  Because of this I had to take two showers in one day and if you know me you know I hate when that happens.

La Lora:  Apparently I like to talk a little bit too much.  I went to the doctor with what I thought was an earache; turns out the joint in my jaw is swollen from talking, screaming, singing, etc to the point that it has affected my inner ear.  I’m supposed to talk and eat less in order for it to heal… ha.

Stairway to Heaven?  Still unsure what this is for.

Hangovers are Fun:  I was feelin’ a little queasy one morning when I made the worst possible decision.  I got on the Transmilenio, a subway-like bus system in Bogota, and ended up smashed between the door and a guy who smelled of sewage.  Imagine my face smashed into his armpit… I puked at the next stop.

Animal Rights Not an Issue:  In a game between Barranquilla's Atletico Junior and Deportivo Pereira (Colombian teams), a small owl, known for flying in and around the stadium fell onto the field.  The game was stopped and a visiting player headed over to help it off the field.  He helped it by kicking it off the field… the owl died a few days later in the animal hospital.  Fans were so upset the striker had to be escorted out of the stadium with the police force.  You have to see it to believe it

.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jyA_yrD1ko

April Fools' Day

It’s April Fools come early here in Colombia.  I just couldn’t resist…

Good morning class.  

Good moooooooorniiiiiiiiiing

How is everyone today?

Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

Ok, I need you to please clear off your desks, face front, and separate yourself from your neighbor.  (Initial looks of terror; they know what that means.)  Quickly, we haven’t got all day.  Now don’t worry, this is just a little pop quiz to check how well you’ve been paying attention in class the last few weeks.

Does it count for a grade?????  (slighty frantic)

Yes.  (All eyes immediately shoot to the real professor as if to ask, Are you really letting her do this to us?  The teacher nods in approval).

Please do not flip over your paper until everyone has one.  Everyone ready?  Okay, now turn over your paper, read the directions carefully, and begin.

The directions on the test read:  Read over all the questions and then begin.  You have 10 minutes to complete this quiz.  The last question on the test reads: Flip over your paper.  Do not take the quiz.  It is a joke.  Happy April Fools’ Day.

Pencils scratch feverishly.  The first question is easy.  The second one as well.  The third question not so much.  Students start looking up at me like, I thought you were nice!  And others, I really hate you right now!  Students look back and forth between each other for confirmation of the difficulty and unfairness of the quiz.  Number four is even harder.  Some look ready to cry.  Others giggle in discomfort.   Write a brief paragraph about the current conflict in Libya.  Include 4 phrasal verbs that we studied last week.  OUR ASSISTANT IS THE DEVIL!!!!!!!!

Students start coming to my desk with questions of desperation.  Wait, I have a question.  When did we talk about Libya?  Does it matter what tense the phrasal verbs are in?  I don’t understand number 3.  I don’t think we discussed number 4.  How do you spell Gaddafi? 

Just do your best.  You only have a few more minutes.

I let them struggle for 10 minutes.  It's a long ten minutes.  Pencils down please.  Immediate outbreak of Spanish speaking.  

So how do you think you did? 

Bety bety bad.  (Spanish pronunciation)  They are straight up mad at this point.  Why?  What happened?  No answer.  Common, what was hard about it?  Overflow response: not enough time, crazy questions, we didn’t study that, bla bla bla!

Ok, Diana, would you please read the instructions aloud?  Ok, Santiago, would you please read the last question aloud?

Small screams, sighs of relief, outbreak of Spanish speaking.  Most importantly, smiles, big smiles.  Relief.  I then capture the moment to explain to them what April Fools’ Day is and how we “celebrate” in the U.S.  The next few moments are spent laughing and showing each other what they wrote out of desperation on the quiz.  Everyone fell for it.  I played this same trick on four classes today, and the dialogue above was the same in all four.  Each quiz was tailored to the recent subject matter of that particular class.  Except for the Gaddafi question; that was universal.  Had to make it believable.

I love April Fools’ Day.  The best part is, I get to do this again to all the fresh blood in my classes tomorrow.  I don’t think they’ll forget what April Fools’ Day is.  At least not any time soon.

Help

The Beatles put it nicely:

Help! I need somebody,
Help! Not just anybody,
Help! You know I need someone, heeeeeelp.

Simple, to the point.  Easy right? 

In the past month or so I have read two books about help.  One is literally entitled The Help, and tells the story of a young, homely woman who helps black women living in Mississippi, working as hired help for white families in the 1960s, to tell their stories of love and pain.  These black women also help her to find herself and make her dreams of becoming a writer come true.  The title is ambiguous in that it remains unclear which help the author is referring to, either way, help is rendered. 

The second book is called I Know This Much is True and tells the story of twin brothers, one of which is a paranoid schizophrenic who amputates his own hand in a public library to stop the war.  Both need help, equally, it just takes the “normal” brother much longer to let go and accept it.  He’s supposed to be the strong one.

I’ve had this idea of help on my mind a lot lately; I’ve noticed a striking number of inconsistencies.

My English tutoring hours have really filled up this semester compared to last.  Encouraging, except that about 80% of the students who repeatedly visit me are my most advanced students.  Those who most desperately need help don’t ask for it, won’t ask for it.   

I have more students willing to cheat than to ask for help (this is NOT a Colombian phenomenon).

I was offered a raincoat a few days back because I came to work in a fleece North Face and it started to pour just as I had to walk 8 blocks to a bus stop.  I said “no gracias.”  Having trouble admitting that you might not be invincible against the elements Annie?

Why is it so hard, asking for help.  It’s not hard, we just make it so.  Survival of the fittest right?  Don’t we want to survive?  I think there’s some implicit assumption that by asking for help we admit defeat, weakness, inferiority.  That’s not even kind of true, at least I don’t think so.  Just because someone helps you doesn’t mean they carry you, doesn’t mean you can’t, doesn’t make you any less an individual.  Help is helpful, period.  And a little psychology tid-bit, if someone helps you it subconsciously makes that person like you more (to an extent of course).

So how do I convince my students (and professors) that they need my help without crushing their egos, driving them even further away?  Thoughts?  Suggestions?  Now I need your help.  

Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers

Ever been stranded on the side of a deserted mountain road in Ecuador?  Alone?  Kicked off the bus by a police officer for not having the proper stamp on your passport even though the numb-nut at Border Security said U.S. Citizens only need the immigration form?  Had everyone on the bus look at you like you were some sort of terrorist as they drove off?  Started walking in the direction from which you came hoping to find some sign of civilization before the sun went down?  Had an indigenous family (no teeth) drive you 2.5 hours to the airport because no one else would? 

In case you haven’t already come to this conclusion, I had some issues getting in and out of Ecuador about 3 weeks ago.  Because I was alone there was no time for panicking, crying, even hesitating.  Somehow, I honestly don’t know how, I remained totally calm.  It felt like some sort of a biological reaction.  My body (and mind) just instinctively kicked into 4-wheel drive.  Solve the problem Annie, you have to, and now.

The closest I came to panicking was when I retold the story to a group of friends once I finally got to Quito and to my parents when I got back to Bogotá.  Understandably they weren’t thrilled. 

Stressful things happen to us every day, but I’ve really come to believe that for the most part those things are only as stressful as me make them.  I learned studying psychology that our bodies are built to be able to cope with a tragedy every once in awhile: death in the family, illness, etc.  That’s not to say these events are taken lightly, but that most people eventually learn to move on, the weight eventually alleviated.  What our bodies are not designed to do is put up with a constant grind of stress and anxiety.  It may be smaller, less notably dramatic, but it does not desist, if we don’t let it.

There’s a book by Robert M. Sapolsky called Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers.  It’s rather scientific, but the high level message is that animals (zebras in this case) use stress related hormones to help them survive and cope, whereas humans secrete these same hormones at higher quantities and for extended periods of time, which can significantly damage our health.  The best thing you can do is learn how to not stress yourself out; it’s not worth it anyways, and will probably only inhibit you from solving the problem at hand.

Save your stress for real misfortune, and then let biology kick in.  When it’s over it’s over, just a story to tell, an event to remember, or to forget.  But you have to let yourself let it end.       

Grow Up

More than anything, after a certain age, life expects us to act as grownups.  Make responsible decisions, look after ourselves and others, abide by moral standards, bla bla bla.  My brother recently had a baby and one of my dearest friends from college just got engaged.  They´re growing up!  The importance, rather, necessity of growing up is tantamount to the continued functioning of not only our individual lives, but of society as a whole.  Regardless, I still see a value in moments of immaturity, childishness, letting loose once in awhile.

Carnaval de Negros y Blancos (a carnival in Pasto, Colombia, which I recently attended) is an example of just that.  It’s a typical carnival: parades, concerts, local food and drink.  Now add thousands of aerosol cans of foam (picture shaving cream), thousands of pounds of flour, and paint of all colors.  Upon entering the streets one enters straight up battle mode.  It’s actually ridiculous.  One literally cannot walk to the corner bakery without having flour thrown in your hair, foam sprayed anywhere and everywhere, paint caked on your face, or some bizarre combination of the three.  Your only defense is a good offense (and a pancho). 

My first thought was, this is awesome.  But then I thought, would this fly in the U.S.?  At a Vandy frat party, sure, but in any old city, not so positive.  It didn’t matter your age or your social status; several senior citizens shot me directly in the face.  Everyone participated.  I was thoroughly impressed with the level of immaturity.  I like to think that I take myself and my life pretty seriously, but sometimes you’ve just gotta buy a spray can of foam and squirt it at someone you don’t even know.

To quote my favorite Disney movie, “If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, not me!”