thewindowseat

[thewindowseat]

Why I Will Never Work With Adults Again!

I never veered from adulthood. I loved the idea of independence, respect and paying bills. I still love that part of being an adult. However, now I work with children and it’s made me realize that the worst part of being an adult, is having to work with them!

Gone are the days where I listened to spousal problems, traffic jams, who didn’t get an invite to so-and-so’s wedding, blah blah blah. That part of being an adult brought me down. I hated hearing the gossip and boring dribble while I punched a keyboard to drowned out the noise of meaningless “problems” co-workers had. Even though I liked my co-workers, I hated the chit-chat and games.

But kids play different games…meaningful games. Every day I am Peter Pan and I play with the Lost Boys, all in the name of education. Education for who (for whom)? For all of us. I learn, they learn; we all fill one another’s cup and I’ve never had such fun.

Today I was chased by a group of first graders…again. You know those nightmares where someone is chasing you but you don’t know why? All you know is they are chasing you and you are scared and you need to outrun them. That’s what happens to me every day. I hear a loud cry, “ TEACHER ROSE!” Then I turn around with my papers and colored pencils, to find several children gaining on me, fast. Instinctively I run. I don’t know what they want, and to be honest I don’t usually know who they are. All I know is they are chasing me like blood sucking zombies and I can most likely out run them.

I dart past the school director, he watches with concern to make sure I’m not in danger as adults are supposed to be more demure. I  bow quickly and run faster, flying past another teacher while I round the corner. I hide to the side and wait. I can hear the little monsters yelling at one another and when the first one passes the wall’s edge I scream, “Rawwwr!” They all squeal a high-pitched frightened sound and dart in the opposite direction. I flatten my skirt and walk into my office, where everyone is watching. “Good morning, Teacher Rose,” the department head says. “Good day,” I bow to her.

To be honest it’s the microcosm that I love. The classroom is like a world, a world free of civil unrest and bitter endings. We are a world where everyone and everything is a possibility. Today another girl stole Fern’s crayons. I rarely need to interfere, Sprite hit the girl on the arm and took the crayons back for Fern. Some students are more assertive, some scared, others wait to see what happens; regardless, they are all goodhearted and none of them want to rejoice alone.

If I give one of them a gold star, they are pointing at their friends to get a gold star too. If I give one of them candy, they are gathering the rest of their herd to get candy too. By nature, they follow their heart all day long, and I follow their hearts too because every day it leads me to a new side of heaven.

At the end of the day, Yogi and I sit like Zombies and wonder where the day went. I’m covered in chalk, my hair is matted with sweat to my forehead, and my hands are covered in colored markers. Like battle scars from a pillow fight, these are war wounds that fill my heart when I see them. Kids have a way of seemingly sucking the youth from your pores. But if one takes time to follow them through the rain, roll around with them in the sun, and skip with them to lunch, they will see that youth flows both ways.

I inhale the youth of 1400 students every single day! It’s the best kind of politics; everyone is equal, loved and shares. It’s the perfect world where rain or shine, we play outside. It’s the ideal place for happiness to grow, because we have no desire to be any other way.

Children do not define themselves by a remodeled kitchen, the latest clothes, or what their body looks like. And neither do I anymore!  How do I define myself now? Like my students define themselves, as is.  We are exactly how we were made. All kids know is they landed here (where ever that is)  and they don’t think twice about their thighs or IQ. We are exactly how we should be: happily perfect and perfectly happy.

[thewindowseat]

The Crazy S&*% I Say Every Day ...To Kids!

“W

It’s a new semester and all the students are a whole grade older. It’s hard to imagine they mature that much over a 6 week break, but it seems they actually do a little bit. None-the-less, it seems I say the same things over and over everyday, no matter what grade I am teaching. They say, “Kids say the darnedest things,” and that’s true; but mostly I’ve learned that kids make you say the craziest s*&%! 

I walked into my first kindergarten class and two boys immediately burst into tears. I guess my foreignness was overwhelming. I tried to compensate by singing songs and bribing them with candy, but they wouldn’t take the "bait” (Good job parents! Technically, I am a stranger).  

The next class of first graders couldn’t get over how silly I sounded and kept laughing hysterically after I said every word. I pulled a Joe Pesci, in Goodfellas, “I’m funny how? Like I’m a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh?” The only benefit was that all the kids took the candy and one boy that was crying because he missed his mom, stopped. I Guess it pays to be the clown. 

As I moved my way through several classes and a few hundred students I’ve said sentences that I never dreamed I would say in my life. These are real things said..... today. 

“Don’t touch my boobs.” 

“Who drew a flower on my leg?” 

“Stop putting the mop in his butt.” 

 “Why are you eating paper but holding a mango?”

“What’s moving in your pocket? Take that bug and put it outside!”

“Yes I wear underwear.” (After clothes lesson)

“I know there’s a flower on my leg.” 

“I love you too.” 

“Please, stop touching my boobs.” 

People ask me what is the best part of Thailand; my answer is unequivocally the school in which I work. I love the kids, I love the teachers and I love being a student and a teacher myself, every day! 

The students greet the teachers every morning and the teachers take the opportunity to inspect the children to ensure they are well cared for, and have everything they need to have a good day. Care and respect begats care and respect. 

[thewindowseat]

The Night Life

We had only been driving about a half hour, but we were already on a paved road so it was practically civilization. I was leaving The Elephant Temple, the jungle. Well, all of Thailand’s a jungle, but some parts are more jungle-y with more animals, less cozy home devices. I watched the rice fields fly by with only tiny stars to light the scenery. I felt the weight of the vast darkness that enveloped our car, I felt empty. 

It was two weeks to the day since I had arrived at The Elephant Temple; originally, I had planned on staying only five days. I’m still not sure why I decided to stay longer, but I knew I didn’t want to leave. 

As the car drove on, I peered at every piece of foliage that I could see. I made note of every florescent light used to catch bugs for meals, and saw every house fire, the locals burning their trash for the day. They were signs of life, human life. I hadn’t seen an actual town in weeks, and while they were still sparse in those parts, even they were too many humans for me. 

I could make out shadows in the distance, and like a mirage of the ocean when you look into a flat horizon, I could see huge elephants towering near the road. As we’d pass, I’d find they were merely trees, large and majestic in their own right.

Actually, it was less than 100 years ago when those trees might have been large herds of elephants. They’d be moving through the night over the empty road (that wouldn’t be there) and crossing pockets of planes surrounded by dense forest; tearing down trees effortlessly with their trunks, stronger than a heap of men put together. 

They’d rummage through the night searching for their favorite foods, as they would have had a variety of plants and fruits to choose from...back then. Elephants love fruit. They’ll indulge on rose apples and mangoes until the trees run dry. But like humans, all that sugar is bad for them and their bodies will eventually crave the sticks, leaves and branches they were born to eat. 

It seemed real the way I saw night shadows of gigantic elephants that matched the night sky, like enormous salamanders that take on their surroundings. Elephants can do something similar, their color can blend; not changing colors actually, just seeming to. And their sheer size can almost be to inconceivable for the human eye. Before you know it, you’ve passed 10 of them without realizing they are amidst the jungle fauna. 

I peered out my window at mirages of herds crossing the streets slowly and gently as they migrate through the jungle during their 16 hour days of constant eating. Eventually resting around 1 am for a short four hour nap. I could see all this take place; but when shaken to reality, I’d realize that there was nothing there but vacant rice fields and abandoned farming huts. My heart sank. 

I shouldn’t be here! This g**damn road shouldn’t be here! All we have in the name of civilization should have never replaced Elephants and their completely natural lives. I felt guilty. Half the people in the world don’t even consider themselves happy, and yet we steam rolled an entire species into near extinction (the rest are in chains and tutus) all in the name that we are a superior species and need room to live. “To live.” 

By now I could see the first traffic light, a symbol that soon I would be in a home with completed walls and a shower head. I would have a bed and not need my mosquito nets anymore. Those lights symbolized that I would no longer hear the elephant symphony lull me to sleep at night. Absent would be the sounds of crunching leaves in the dark. Sounds of the hollow knocking of larges pieces of wood smacking against the ground as the elephants shake the leaves from the trees. I would no longer hear trumpets or high pitched whines as they talk to each other like girls at a slumber party. I’d lay awake and wonder, what were they saying to one another? 

When my Mom was a single mom, she would share a bed with my sister and I, as we were all lonely without my dad. We would chat and laugh about the day’s activities. It was sweet pillow talk, not the romantic kind, the innocent, loving kind. I imagined the elephants were doing the same. Their trumpeting soothing one another, like a mama’s voice.  

Elephants creek like old houses made of wood. Their chimes are like mahogany, loud wind noises. Their robust clamor is soft and gentle to the ears, as anyone can tell  that they are the sounds of large beasts that have no ill intent. Even so, one can only guess what the sounds actually represent in the pitch black.

We rounded the corner and I saw my home. I grabbed my backpack and pillow and thanked the driver as I shut the door.  The streets were empty except the faithful lady on the corner that has served papaya salad for probably centuries. I smiled at her, as I haven’t seen her in months. She smiled back a familiar smile, and that’s as much as we could say to one another, but it was practically a whole conversation of, “how are you, how is business, how were your travels? It’s nice to see you again.” 

I walked into my apartment and threw my stuff on the floor. Two months ago, I thought this apartment was “roughing it,” now it’s a palace, a tad extravagant with it’s fancy upright toilet. I sit and cry, who will hear the elephants tonight? Who will be a witness to what their lives have been reduced to? 

Tonight, I feel like Oskar Schindler as I wonder how much I can sacrifice to buy the lives of all creatures without a voice. Wild animals that we’ve fake domesticated because we “love them.” Like Jefferson loved his slaves, where did that love lead?  I look around my stupid walls, I want to give it all up as I have lived without it already. I want to save the animals of the jungle, give them back their wildlife. There are only a few hundred wild elephants left in all of Thailand, and people are still talking about being fat, not having eyes properly spaced and trying to be civil to family members on holidays. The least we could do when we run an entire species into death is take it’s land and be happy. 

“To Live.” 

[thewindowseat]

Elephanting: My Training as a Mahout

Thailand is synonymous with elephants. Everyone wants to see elephants in Thailand and I was no different. I wanted to ride down beautiful rivers on the back of an enormous, majestic creature. I wanted to touch it and feel it’s thousands of years of evolution with my fingertips. But mostly, I wanted to know, “How does one show love to such an enormous creature?” That single question would lead me on a ride of a lifetime.

When I arrived in Thailand, some new Thai friends wanted to help me realize my dream, so they took me to an elephant village. These are tiny theme parks designated to the love of the gentle giants that helped win wars for Thailand, once upon a time. These villages have food carts, markets, knick-knack shops and of course, the stars of the show, elephants. Admission is free but for a tiny fee you can become buddies with an elephant through various interactions. You can ride them, feed them, take pictures with them, even get lifted up by a trunk for an incredible profile picture. I was so excited to touch one, make eye contact, feel its tough skin and interact with it by sharing a special, wild animal moment.  But that’s not what happened.

When I finally came face to face with the towering beast, for the first time in my life, it was horrible.  I looked into its eyes as it was tied to a tree and they were pin points, like it was on drugs or on high alert. It sat there rocking back and forth like a frightened child in a horror film. I bought some bananas to feed to one particular elephant as it’s “guardian” stood by ensuring it chewed. The melancholy elephant took my offerings like a robot, without any emotion at all, as a line of people fed it the same thing behind me. The animals carrying patrons around were moping. Walking slow like they had done it a million times before (and later I learned that they had) with gigantic chains hanging from their necks attached to their feet. It was like an elephant chain-gang. The men steering the elephants all held hooks. Hooks! Why on Earth would anyone need a hook? It felt wrong. It was not the spiritual experience I was hoping for, so I started researching if there were places that I could go to show an elephant love. And thus my search began.  

And here I am today, at an elephant rescue known as Elephant Temple, which sells elephant poop coffee to support the elephants. I came for a visit and asked the monk if he wanted any help, when he said yes, I asked the owner if I could live here and help for a while. Volunteerism doesn’t really exist in Thailand, so they met my meager generosity in typical Thai fashion. Since they didn’t have a place for me to stay, they built me a house. Yes, a beautiful loft style hut with my own toilet and bucket to shower.

We call it a temple because it’s an actual ordained Buddhist temple, which means no matter how hot, or how humid, I have to wear temple appropriate attire. That’s the hardest part. Otherwise my day is pretty easy met with spurts of giant activity (excuse the pun).

Always kissing

My day goes as follows:

MORNING: I wake up at 6:30am and put on deodorant, brush my teeth, lather my face with sunscreen and head out to stock the stalls full of fresh food. I have to wear long sleeves as the leaves are full of bugs and the thin leaves grace me with hundreds of tiny, paper-cut like scratches. I greet Prat San when he returns from blessing the village and gathering food. I then wait on my porch while he marches the elephants in from their dirt pasture to the covered day-stalls. By 8am I unload the new shipment of fresh cut stalks of leaves and grass. Then I eat breakfast and I have some free time.

During my free-time I planned on reading, writing and sending letters to friends. But I never do that. Instead I sit and watch. I dangle my feet over the sides of my patio, and I watch the elephants for hours. I watch them fight and flip their trunks to shew each other away.  I watch them steel the other’s food. I watch them, kiss, feed each other and inspect one another with their trunks. I watch them act like brothers and comrades as they soothe each other from the PTSD with which they all struggle.

���Excuse me one minute, but if you don’t like those, well I happen to love them.”  

LUNCH:  We feed and water the elephants again and then I organize the new shipment of corn, stalks and other tree branches that the elephants love. Usually I have a terribly ugly dog by my side that is so old and blind it hides from the other dogs by staying close to people. Not stepping on him is my biggest accomplishment, his name is Sinto, it means troublesome.

We repeat this all day long and in between I sit and watch the elephants more, as they do the same to me. One of the problems with feeding these big brutes is that they blame me if the shipment of food has not arrived yet. Consequently, they throw old stalks of food at me. All the workers laugh as it’s a compliment that no one wants.

All day long, I am eaten alive by bugs, fighting chickens and dogs for elephant leaves, outrunning dangerous hornets and dragon flies, all in the name of pursuing this fascination I have with finding out, “How can I show an elephant love?”

Literal water baby

DINNER: The owners and I have become great friends. We eat under the stars at the outdoor dining table, which is a large square piece of plywood on the ground. We laugh and discuss animal politics and ways to improve the lives of the elephants. We drink elephant poop lattes and then clean up dinner in a trash bin full of water used as a kitchen sink. It’s one of the most comfortable living environments in which I’ve lived. Then I’m off to clean the day stalls as Prat San has taken the elephants out to pasture. It’s the hardest work at the Temple. About 2-3 hours of drenched sweat while I single-handedly sweep, shovel and dump poop out of the stalls. It’s quiet, dark and a tad lonely.

BED TIME: At 9pm, I am beat. I am dirty and tired and still sweating from emptying the stalls of old food and dung the size of melons.  I can’t wait to hold my little pot and poor the pipe-temperature water over my head, three times. I love the feeling of lathering with soap and watching the yellow stains on my feet disappear. I pour the water over my head several more times until the dirt is gone and I feel cool, for the first and last time of the day. Then while doing all of this in the dark (because light attracts HUGE beetles that fly into the walls of my room until they are all dead on the floor), I turn on the fan, get into my mosquito net and crawl into my mat on the tile.  I look at the 2-inch gap under my door and pray the cats, dogs and people eat the snakes before they make their way into my room. I put my ear plugs in and I tell my body that I need to rest, no matter how many of my bones are sticking into the hard surface, I have a big day tomorrow, more “same same.”

I still know very little about elephants, and I can do even less for them. But every day I wake up in service of the actual mahout. If I make his job easier (which I do) then he has time to love them, and help their mental status while I meet their basic needs.

I respect elephants; I enjoy them, I fear them and I should. They were born to squash me effortlessly, the way I can accidentally break a kitten’s back by stepping on it. The way a kitten can kill a frog just by playing with it (That’s a nightly show, I don’t even interfere anymore).  

How do I show an elephant love? I clean up its poop, throw it some branches, and hope that these elephants will be the last ones in captivity.

Using the leaves to scratch those hard to reach places. 

[thewindowseat]

Life for Sale, Here’s the Cost

It’s fun to be a world traveler, there’s no denying that. I meet interesting people, visit stunning destinations and have life changing experiences, and that’s just a typical Tuesday. I do whatever I want, whenever I want and my amateur pictures or words could never do it all justice. That being said, my life isn’t unique.

People often tell all of us (world travelers, the gang), “Oh you’re so lucky, I wish I could do what you’re doing.” Or the famous, “Wow, I’ll take your life any day.” Guess what? My life isn’t in short supply. There are endless amounts my life. This means that more than me can do what I do, isn’t that great? There’s one small catch, you have to be willing to do what I do.

Often times people romanticize my life. They see brown kids and think I’m a saint, or mountain top poses and think I’m an explorer. Sometimes they comment on the places I visit and think I’m on vacation. The truth is, I am none of those things. I am not on a safari ride, or having an “experience.” I am living my life in the same selfish, focused and driven way as anyone else. Every life comes with blessings and sacrifices. Of course, we all want the life that is sans sacrifice and heavy on blessings. I have yet to find such a life, so I chose mine after a short cost benefit analysis; here’s what my life costs.

CHOICE: I am an English Teacher. Not the kind that takes a class and visits a new country to make a little money while traveling, not even a good one, but I’m a real teacher. It is the most fun I have ever had at making money. I am treated like royalty in and out of the classroom. My coworkers and parents and anyone that lives in my city call me Teacher. They will do anything to make sure I am well provided for, and in that way, it is heaven. Even if I happen to want to go for a walk or have a little run, I am immediately sited and told to get on the back of a motorbike and taken to my destination. There are no exceptions.

COST: I spend many hours planning lessons and thinking of ways to make it clear to my students that English can be fun and R’s don’t sound like L’s. I also have to speak slowly and in Thaiglish all day long. I have no idea what the students say to me and I’m sure I’m insulted in almost every class. I live in a silent world, where none of the noises make any sense and my English skills are completely useless, except for making an income.

CHOICE: I work with elephants and have learned Mahoot techniques from Thai monks and elephant experts who were raised with the sacred task of training them. I see elephants whenever I want and feed them at will.

COST: I spend all my extra money on bananas and fruit. Any extra time is spent sweaty in rivers of elephant piss, while shoveling the largest poop on Earth. The elephants generally don’t like me much and kisses are pretty much non-existent. I do it selfishly – with no pay off except for love of the beast (much like my former relationship).

CHOICE: I work 10 months out of the year and have 4-months off. In this time, I have the ability to travel and spend time with loved ones and pursue hobbies. I can workout and drink a gallon of water a day with little to no stress. The time off has afforded me mental health which has translated to a physical well-being and emotional sanity.

COST: I make 12k a year.  ‘nuff said.

CHOICE: I attain an incredible education on politics, social and animal issues everywhere I go. Some people read, some people take classes, some people watch the news. I seek education by touching the earth and the people that stand on it. I want to know what people in Thailand think of Americans (nothing, actually. That was a moot point). I want to visit bunkers of the Vietnamese when hiding from American troops. I have to see it and touch it and talk to people affected by it, in this way I understand my own version of history.

COST: I travel as a nomad. I am alone a lot, with very few people that can relate to my lifestyle, or me in general.  I never have a home and I rarely know where I am going to sleep. Currently, I am sleeping on a mat on a tiled floor of a bamboo hut. I wash my clothes in the sinks, where there is running water, and I often take showers from trash bins full of water.  I eat very little and usually something that costs $1 or less: like a sandwich some local made full of mystery meat and a sweet, gelatinous mayonnaise-like spread. I go to the bathroom on toilets that are nothing more than porcelain foot holders to make the squatting seem more sanitary.

CHOICE: Even with my tiny income, I still travel wherever I want. I have been to twenty countries and counting. Three of those countries I have called my home, complete with a job and physical address. I have swum in countless bays and seas, been inside temples that only royalty have seen, and participated in world-wide festivals. I have been a part of history and participated in the future in the making.

COST: I can’t deny the new truths I find. I can’t un-talk to a prostitute. I can’t unsee animal atrocities. I can’t forget the monks that have served me and whom I have served.  I can’t unlike a man even after I find out he believes sex should start at 10 years old. I can’t unknow what really happened during the Ireland conflict. And I can’t help but love the Muslims who have shown me so much love after their counter parts have threatened my life. Seeking truth can be difficult, but processing it is the hardest part.

Traveling is unique to everyone. Some people backpack, others sit on beaches of obscure islands, many hit up the hot spots like Berlin, Rome, Greece. And then there’s those of us who are in school. The world is our classroom and have to meet every single person to know the well-rounded humanity in which we are a part.

Some people call me poor. Some people say I’m restless. Some people call me lucky. Each of them is right and each of them is wrong. I may be poor to them because I lack money and modern conveniences like a toilet with a handle that flushes. But I think they are poor, because they will never understand how to not judge themselves based on what their kitchen looks like. They will not stop apologizing for their meager means of a 4 bedroom home that has cabinets more than five-years old.  And I may seem restless because I can’t find a continent to land on, but I believe they are restless because they feel inadequate if they aren’t running around the city stressing, honking, and guilt ridden that they didn’t fill their 24-hour day with 25 more things that ultimately don’t matter. And I am lucky, because my parents never clipped my wings. But I believe they are lucky because most of the “impoverished people” in the United States have more modern conveniences and access to education than some of the richest people in other nations.

If I may be so bold, my life is perfect. It is grand in every way. And that’s not a state of mind, it’ the truth. I hand-picked this life knowing the cost. Honestly, at twice the price it’s still one hell of a bargain.

[thewindowseat]

The Bitch Myth: The Unknown Female Language

It’s a lie that’s perpetuated in sitcoms and poorly written social sites. It’s a fantasy that men like to repeat and dim women put little thought into. The fallacy that women are catty, jealous and competitive is a myth and I can prove it. 

Of course ladies can dislike one another and fight over something trivial - but generally those are trivial girls. However, cross one of us, make one of us cry and you will see the wrath of an entire gender. I experienced this first hand in a very upsetting situation. 

I warn you this is not an easy story, but one that taught me a valuable lesson, and thus I recount it for good. 

Traveling isn’t always rainbows. It is everything you see on my social media, but there are pictures I don’t take, and days I don’t report. Because like everything else, traveling the world has it’s rough times. The difference is that I am completely alone and have little rights (if any) when I’m not in my native country. Recently, I had one of my hardest days. 

                                   *      *      *      *     *    * 

I finally arrived on a remote island with barely signs of life. The weather was perfect, the ocean crisp and a beautiful sea-foam green. The vistas were miles of dotted, deserted islands for as long as the horizon. And if anywhere was going to be a spot for romance this was it. 

After almost half a year without any signs of even a touch from a man, I couldn’t help but be a little “thristy,” as the kids say now-a-days. I threw my stuff down at my hostel and ran for the beach, book in hand. As I was hiking up a hill I met two guys. I thought they wanted to sell me a ride on the motorbike, but instead they spoke English. One had lived in San Diego for a short time and we bonded over my home town. He was a scientist working on primate activity on the island and offered to take me to the national forest, so we exchanged information and I made my way to the beach by myself. 

As I sat on a cliff writing in my journal, I thought about how good looking and smart her was. His profession intrigued me and he was well versed in my culture. I imagined us kissing in the ocean and  him visiting me in Thailand and one day introducing him to my mom (I know, but give me a break, I haven’t had a love interest in over half a year). 

Later that day we met up with his friends. Everyone was fun and silly. They drank beer slowly and I drank water, without any objection (which is normally a big problem in Asia). We got to know each other better and he asked me out for the next day. I accepted happily imagining motorbike rides through the forest and listing to him drone on about the gibbons and macaws. I couldn’t wait to take selfies with this man as we played with each other’s hair in the jungle. I would be his Jane and he would be my Tarzan. But he had a different plan. 

I will spare you all the details but when he picked me up we drove straight into the wild. I was on the back of his motorcycyle, my dress flew up with the speed, but no one saw. Wildly my hair (which took me an hour to do) tangled in the wind - I felt free as we headed deeper and deeper into the jungle and away from lights and people. I asked if there was a bar or restaurant out this way and he said there were a few. I was excited to meet locals that lived on this tiny dot of land, I would learn so much and laugh all night, as I do. 

Finally we stopped at a big building. I got off and he told me to be quiet. We walked into a corridor and he opened a door. It led to a single room with a bed and nothing else. He ordered me to lie down. From there I will spare you the details, but i can tell you that i was able to fight him off, mostly. I had some scratches and a torn dress and eventually he took me home to my hostel. And that concluded our relationship. 

                                                    *    *    *    *    *   * 

Listen, it doesn’t matter what you think you would do, or how you would feel. It matters that I had to return to a room that I shared with 10 people, in a ripped dress that I now wore as a skirt, ashamed and embarrassed and only imagining what the new strangers thought of me. Not to mention, what I thought of myself. 

I didn’t want to tell anyone that was far away, they’d just worry and would feel justly hopeless. All I could do was change my clothes and walk down to breakfast. There I saw a french girl that I had met the day before, sitting alone. I walked to her table and sat down and started to cry. 

As I recounted pieces of the evening, she cried with me and held my hand. Eventually a few more girls saw what was happening, they were from the Netherlands and they rubbed my shoulders. A Vietnamese woman, that didn’t speak English sat and comforted me with her eyes. 

These women all sympathized, cared for, and related to me. "Similar if not the exact same thing has happened to all of us.” they agreed as they looked at one another. We hugged and I was truly healed in their arms. 

The idea that women are bitchy is true. Like sisters we expect a lot of one another. We may or may not respect each other’s life decisions or make-up selections. But that has nothing to do with our bond, which is severely underestimated in the world. We are safe together and we are together everywhere. 

We may not eat the same foods, or live on the same continent, but I assure you we all speak the same native tongue of sisterhood, and no single man...not even every man put together, can break our love for each other. 

I was going to the leave the island that day, but the group of girls agreed we should steer clear of men for a few days and we all went kayaking and hiking together. Our adventurous day turned to a beautiful night of laughs under the moonlight. And pretty soon, after a couple days spent with women of all ages and cultures, I felt safe and excited to be there with them. 

I found love on that rock. I was rescued from a violent world, and the only people that could heal my heart and my troubled soul, were my sisters. 

In our hearts, we are just little girls that like to play in the sand together. 

[thewindowseat]

Oh You Want More? Well Then, You Must be a Terrorist.

To me, Muslim extremists are iconic for one main reason: they claim to kill and abuse in the name of a God, while also claiming that their actions will get them a more superb spot in the afterlife. As if Heaven is a place with only so much waterfront property and so many virgins, thus the most ruthless man wins the pot of gold. 

Of course, that’s ridiculous. Not only is it silly to believe that the infliction of pain could bring about deliverance, it’s completely ridiculous to think that one man’s Heaven would be full of earned prizes, like virgin’s. Not to mention, who’s Heaven is that anyway? What did that poor girl do to end up with that afterlife? But I digress; the point is, I have spent my entire existence believing the same thing. The virgins can be exchanged for other things, but the theology that I can earn things is eerily similar. 

Many forms of Christianity teach that all their work on Earth will bring them a life full of mansions in the sky and swapping recipes with their next door neighbor, the Creator of the Universe.

Personally,  I have churched, studied and volunteered all in the name that when I die, “The last shall be the first and the first shall be the last.” That is so me! I am the last. I mean I was the last, I will be the first...not the other way around. Anyway, I’m the one that needs vindication in the afterlife. I’m the one that is waiting for death so I can finally have victory. 

Oh man, all my ex’s are going to be so sorry. Wait until they have to lay at my feet. Daily, I sing the song from My Fair Lady, “Just you wait, Henry Higgens, just you wait! You’ll be sorry but your tears will be too late!” My sister will finally apologize for being such a brat. My mom will see all the hard work I did in the background. All the times I picked trash (when nobody was even looking) will all be shown on a big screen. And I will come out to applause and humbly accept my Good Person For Recognition Award. 

But, what if I’m wrong? What if I’m also a crazy extremists that doesn’t do things on Earth from the heart, but for the trophy? And worst of all, what if this is as good as it gets? 

Is it possible that when the Lord arrives He won’t take us anywhere? He could just stay here and nothing would change except His presence. 

 So If the terrorists don’t get virgins, and I don’t get a replica of Disney’s Castle when I die, then what about my body? When I meet the Lord, I wanted to emerge like a contestant from The Swan, with all the new bodily features I’ve been planning since I was a little girl. A face that is both perfectly even in lightness and darkness. Thighs that are strong, but dainty. A waist that makes everyone gasp and whisper when they see it, “Ahh, waist” 

But now, under this new, “You Get What You Got” plan, I will keep my curvy-dimply body. My hips-for-days, my big girl thighs, neither will be exchanged for anything new. But I earned it, I was good. I worked for it. It’s an exchange, or so I thought. 

I guess it makes sense though, if He picked all my body parts out especially for me the first time, I doubt He’s willing to do a trade.  Maybe I will still live in a home where i wash my clothes in the same sink that I wash my dishes and brush my teeth. And maybe I will still need to use a bucket to flush my toilet and hot water will be a luxury I only get at other people’s homes. 

If this is as good as it gets, then the only difference between life and death will be the presence of my Heavenly Father. Is that enough for me to live my religion? Is all the dedicated hours to scripture study and reigning in temporal desires worth it if nothing changes in the afterlife? 

This means I will have done all those activities by choice with no points received. I suppose all the hours I dedicated to God and His children were done for...me. It was selfish fun, not currency for gifts I am owed. In that case, my Heaven is here. It means my victory is now. Moreover, it means, I have been ungrateful for everything I will ever have, because there’s nothing more behind door number 1 and there is no door number 2. 

If this is as good as it gets, I will need to spend less time planning revenge and acceptance speeches, and more time forgiving and being grateful. I will need to learn to enjoy my life single, no hot man to right the wrongs of the men before him. I will not expect to be first for all the injustice the Lord handed me. Instead I will prepare to enjoy Him, as He is my only reward. 

This life is my next life, I do have and will continue to have scars, crazy Earthly stories,and a second toe that is longer than the first toe. 

All-in-all, maybe the Lord doesn’t need a re-do, maybe He got it right the first time, if this is as good as it gets. 

[thewindowseat]

Teacher: The Single Word Worth 1,000 More

Fish Face - it cracks them up every time

I wasn’t prepared for the name they call me. I’m mostly a “Classroom Facilitator,” and barely qualified at that. None-the-less, all day long I am summonsed for assistance by other people’s children. I help the students communicate, write their nickname in English, and retrieve stolen pencils. They call me by one single word, Teacher. 

Some teachers get to teach students how to write essays or think deep thoughts about what Plato meant when he said, “Life must be lived as play.” But I’m not that kind of teacher. I’m more of a hold up a picture of a cupcake and have the students repeat it 100 times, type of instructor. Sometimes I get snazzy and teach a song about bananas, “Peel bananas, peel peel bananas.” (They love that one.) Or I have the students race to the board as I call out a vocabulary word. It will inevitably end with someone bloody and me full of chalk; but hopefully, they will soon remember how to say “Alligator” (Hard g, guuu). It doesn’t matter, language is a small part of being a language teacher anyway. Actually, every subject is minimal to the teacher role, except the subject of humanity. As a teacher, I’ve learned that my role is to model human kindness to all the students in the world, not just my own. 

The Beginning

From the moment the first student steps foot on campus I hear them yell for me. I can see them running to my office through my window and I wait expectantly. Five of them trip over themselves falling into my open door frame, “Good morning Teacher Rose!” They shout with enthusiasm. “Good morning students.” I reply quietly, hoping to keep the peace that was there before they arrived. They come to greet me like one would a police officer. I am a Teacher place, a safe area; no matter what their home life is like, in my presence they are safe, fed, and loved. 

When I go to lunch they scream at me, “Teacher! Good Afternoon, My name is Prim. I am 9 years old.” This is their way of saying, “I want to make contact, I come in peace.” I am there to approve their hard work. My excitement shows that they have the ability to learn and are smart. They get a great sense of self esteem from this. I wave back and they copy my movements, since waving is foreign in Thailand. Their smiles warm my heart and I am glad to be a teacher to their self worth in learning. 

In the class room, I will do my best to explain the worksheet. I exaggerate my movements to show how to circle the correct answer. I over enunciate to help them hear every letter so they associate what is on the board with what is on the sheet. I fail. As I pass out the worksheets, they each begin to call me one-by-one for help. “Teacher! Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!” Some start saying my name like a machine gun, “Teacher, teacher, eacher, cher, cher, cher, errrrrrr.” I look around to all fifty members of the class whining and demanding me by name...”Teacheeeeeeeeer” Their teacher is their leader, and the most important person, at that moment. I need to get each one to understand, even though I just explained it to the whole class, in which chose to ignore my lesson. In this moment I wish I had a teacher to whine to, “No, you do it for me! Make them get it. Teacheeeeeerrrrr.” 

I laugh more than them usually

Midday: Half way Home

When the next class starts, I run feverishly papers in hand. I usually look like the female version of nutty professor; my bun is a mess, my bangs are in my face, my sunglasses falling to one side, and I’m juggling too many bags for two hands. One of my students is waiting for me outside, she grabs a bag then my hand, “Hello Teacher, let me let me” she says in a soft voice as she plays with my fingers. She is a single child of a single father. Every night she goes home from school and works in their food stand until 10pm. Sometimes she falls asleep in class (and I let her sleep in peace.) To her, Teacher is a female maternal figure, a squishy girl with big boobs and soft arms that she can push herself in between, at will. 

We enter the class and three students come running up to me. They are pointing to a boy crying in the corner. They begin to act out who hit him and why. The guilty boy sits scared at his desk, he begins to plead his case, “Mai Adjun, Mai, Pek...” He calls me teacher in his native language, as he scrambles for words to prevent him from getting hit. I rub the boys back in the corner and look at the naughty one sternly as I put them both in their seats and start the lesson. This time teacher means healer and referee. 

 Finally, when the classrooms have emptied and the kids are full of knowledge and noodles, the students leave me in my office in silence. But not before hundreds of them come to say goodbye, “Goodbye Teacher Rose, see you again tomorrow.” They wave happily. A teacher is a smile at the end of the day, a reminder that they actually did learn something. 

We are total buddies: We share music, food and she teaches me Thai

The End

I walk home with only my memories and exhaustion to accompany me. I see several tiny pick up trucks full of school students, some are from other schools nearby. They all sit neatly in rows of two, as this is their version of a school bus. I round the corner and meet all of their tiny eyes with mine, I hear one single word yelled in unison that means something different to each on of the pupils. It’s as if they are all calling me different names, but I hear only one, “Teacher.” 

At night I have dinner in our town square. I am cat-called by seven year-olds with their parents, “Teacher, Teacher, hello.” I look as they blush, smile and nod to their parents with pride. They communicated in English to their Teacher, everyone in that circle is incredibly impressed. In that moment,  I am their validation. 

As the sun starts to slowly make it’s way down the horizon, I have heard the word teacher a million times for a million different reasons. I lay my head on the pillow and realize I spent my day teaching a few vocabulary words, which is barely teaching at all. None-the-less, they have called me into their lives a million times over in a day. And whether I hear the word yelled to me from a bus on the street, or screeched at me from a whiny eight year-old in class, no matter who the child or what the reason, my name stops my heart and takes my breath away every time I hear it. It’s the only word that makes me feel safe, loved, led and validated, Teacher; I am theirs and they are mine. 

This is world peace in a bubble. 

[thewindowseat]

Platonic but Supersonic

A match made in heaven

Truth be told, we’re perfect for each other. He’s good looking, smart and great with children. We have loads in common (”loads,” that’s his word), we’re both English teachers, travel extensively and have similar political views. Not to mention, that from the moment we met, it was like we had known each other our entire lives. He gets me, and I get him, but there’s one tiny reason we’re not married...we’re actual friends. 

I don’t mean friends with benefits, or friends waiting to make a move, or even friends that don’t want to complicate a great relationship; I mean we are actual friends, nothing more. I knew we had no chemistry, but one particular day it was made extra clear that we have a powerful connection, sans the romance. 

We were working side-by-side in our shared office and he started chit -chatting like he always does, “What���s the name of your new boobie blog, I want to take a look at it?” Finally, he wants to read my stuff. 

I sat patiently as he read it quickly, he’s a fast reader, he’s good at everything! When he finished, he gave a short, strong belly laugh, “Ha! That’s cute!” He exclaimed loudly, in his British accent. “Makes me miss those beef pastries from back home.” I wrinkled my nose and yelled, “What! Are you telling me that a provocative picture of my breasts makes you think of meat pies your ‘nan’ used to make?” He looked scared, and we both laughed until we cried. 

That was the day we both knew, friends forever and nothing more. Sometimes he gives me a ride home from work and he’ll say, “Don’t hold on to me Brittany, people will think we’re together.” “Shut up!” I hiss back, “I’m holding on for my life.” Like I’m going to risk falling off his bike because our tiny town of 100 people might think we kiss.

We talk every day, all the time. When we’re not at work, we’re texting. On the weekends, he stays with his girlfriend up north, who I plan on meeting this spring. We go on picnics, dinners, motorcycle rides through the farms, and when I’m having a hard day he buys me ice cream from seven-eleven and hugs me real fast when no one is looking. 

But it’s not all sunshine and puppies. Sometimes I tell him how much I love him and he throws a Pandora’s Box of expletives at me, “F off! I don’t need that from you.” But that’s his way of saying thanks. The best is when I’m on my phone texting, “You gonna do that all day, are ya?” he moans. He’ll remain totally silent until I put my phone away (eye roll). 

I like to make him happy. I buy him treats and hide them in the office, on days he’s feeling extra hungry he starts poking around and finds them. We are perfect in each other’s lives for this moment in time, which has led me to evaluate relationships in general. 

Sex is the most common, and easiest way to drag a person into your life. There are times when we need moms, dads, friends, mentors and companionship but many of those types of people are hard to find.  Especially when living as an immigrant. It’s not every day you meet grumpy Brits who call you “Hot Chops” and make you smile. Sometimes what we need and want can’t be found, so we look for something else. 

When we have sexual relationships it guarantees that someone will be in our life. We have something that they want, on an innate level. We may not be what they need, they may not be the person we want, but when loneliness sets in, sex is a guaranteed lure that will get a warm body next to us. 

Truthfully, I could not be friends with my co-worker if we had romantic feelings for each other, we work too closely. His lack of chemistry with me was a relief. But more of a relief is that I didn’t confuse what we have with what we don’t have. 

While living here, I miss my sisters, my moms, my dads, my friends and my pets. But seeking out romantic relationships with men and women, will only force the wrong people into my life, for the wrong reasons. Alternatively, when I’m patient, I have found mom figures here, sister figures, friends, mentors and more companionship than I ever expected. I had no idea that it would take so long, but building a community cannot be done hastily, it is sacred and must be done from the heart. 

I do wish to have a sexual and romantic relationship with a loving partner, but that is up to me and that person to cultivate under romantic conditions, when love and commitment is cherished. I look forward to finding that, not forcing it. 

Like glass will never be a diamond, and plastic will never be jade, imitating a role for the sake of companionship is a cheep trick. It not only minimizes a true lover but also could ruin a chance at a true friendship, like the one I value so deeply with my co-worker. 

The Brit and I were at lunch in the teachers lounge recently, and I was preparing my plate while leaning over our shared lunch table. I noticed him looking at me out of the corner of my eye, so I stared back in curiosity, “Is something wrong,” I asked in concern. He whined back, “Oh leave me be, will ya?” Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I’m not going to miss a peek down your shirt,” he winked. 

I punched him in the arm...he’ll survive, he always does. 

He’s always dragging me into things 

[thewindowseat]

Tears of a Clown

Fish Face! 

So it’s been a minute and I’m actually becoming a teacher. It’s apparently my job to entertain the students. I’m the jester and they’re my court. I’m the comic and they’re my audience. I’m ...exhausted! 

Oh yea, I’ve abandoned my Western ways, and I’m the teacher that walks around with a bamboo stick in her hand. I almost feel naked without it. I use it like a rodeo clown uses his barrel. It’s really there to keep me safe, but usually it ends up just making everyone laugh. 

The students think I look funny, talk funny, act funny; and the worst part is, they don’t even understand my jokes. They all see me coming to their building and they scream out “One? Two? Three?” They are trying to find out if I am going to their class. When I say which room I am in that day, they cheer. 

But when I walk in it’s total chaos. They see me as a movie in 3D. They want to see what I have for them, what silly activities we are doing and how crazy I will act that day. However, once I actually try to teach something suddenly 25% of my class will just walk out, another 25% will ask to go to the bathroom, some will start a jacks game on the floor. Now, I ‘m competing to get their attention. 

So I start singing, dancing, looking like a total buffoon, and if I can grasp their attention for a second, I throw in a few vocab words. Usually they start  laughing at me (not with me), but at least I’m teaching...kind of. 

My next step is to create competition. “This side of the room, show me how to ‘Dance.’” I scream at an inhumane octave that will certainly make me horse after an hour. Half the students dance, “No points!’” I scream, “Pek wasn’t dancing.” The kids all turn on Pek and hit him. I turn to the other half of the room, “Show me how to ‘Swim!’” The entire side has caught on and do it all together. “YES! Geng Mak!” The kids are proud of themselves and impressed with my use of Thai. 

Now they are laughing at me for my accent and repeating how I say their words. But that’s fine, at least they are having fun . Out of breath from dancing, swimming and screaming, I begin to explain the worksheet....and, I’ve lost them again. The students are no longer paying attention. 

I chase Chompoo around the room and hit her over the head with some of my papers, the entire class laughs including Chompoo, she sits down. One kid taunts me at the back of the room and wants me to chase him, I do, until he gets to his seat then I bring my stick in the air like I’m going to hit him hard and the entire class laughs and I bring it down softly and barely touch kiss, as if I’m holding a magic wand. He giggles. 

Beem refused to put his play dough away for the seventeenth time in ten minutes so I march over to him, the whole class watches in fear for his life. He sees me marching and puts his hand in his desk still grasping the play dough. I get on my knees and shove my hand in his desk, we wrestle. He squeals with laughter and I finally (but barely) get it out of his grimy, little paws. All the girls in the class applaud and the boys point and laugh at him. Then I dance around with his play dough and do a victory lap. 

Class is almost over and I quickly hand out the worksheets. Then Beer comes up to me and says she can’t write her name, so I help her. Yim sits at her desk with her head down because she doesn’t have a pencil, so I give her mine. Beer asks me if she can color her worksheet, “No! Mai Chai! Work first!” She nods in agreement. 

Finally, everyone is settled and I hear 50 voices scream, “Teacher! Teacher! TEEEEEEEAAACHER!” I look up and try to figure out who’s attacking who, but I only see confused faces. Students are trying to get me to look at them instead of their classmates so they scream louder. Volk gets creative and begins to chant my name rhythmically, “Teach. Er. Loze! Teach.Er.Loze! Teach.Er.Loze.” He adds drums with his ruler on the desk. I smack the desk with the bamboo. I give a loud, short “Sh!” like a dog trainer. The class laughs hysterically and they all mimic my sound. 

I finally make eye contact with the calmest girl in my class, Kookik. She looks at me with her big brown eyes full of hope, and says in Thai, “Teacher, how do I do the worksheet?” 

What a surprise, they talked through the directions and now they are desperate to know what to do, the irony! The bell rings, class is over, and all I can do is.... laugh. 

Still practicing the Fish thing...

[thewindowseat]

Buffalo Soldier

I woke up in the middle of nowhere. Population thirty, and not a store or cell phone tower in sight. As the inside of my eyelids began to brighten, I heard the town radio sing. The music was soft and the sound through the crackling speakers was reminiscent of the music that played over the war-torn Germany in the World War II movies I had seen. The music awakens the people to let them know that the news is about to be broadcast. Like the rising of the sun, it’s how this village starts each and every day. 

Then I heard a knock at the door of my home stay. Home stays are kind of like Airbnb, minus the reviews, online support or rules. It’s essentially a sign someone puts outside their home as an invitation to guests who need a place to stay for a night or two. My friends and I got lucky, we had an entire house to ourselves. 

When I answered the door, the owner of the house had made breakfast for us. She set up a mat on the patio full of traditional Thai food: white rice, fried chicken wings, minced liver and spices, fresh raw vegetables from her garden...that her mother was now watering (I guess everyone gets up with the sun and the melody). We all watched the sunrise together as we feasted on the preciously, prepared food made by her loving hands. As I ate, I thought about how early she must have awoken to prepare our feast. Her benevolence made me feel an incredible amount of devotion for her. 

After breakfast, I sat on the patio taking in the sights. Because I live in Thailand, I have very few moments that are hard hitting reminders that I’m not in Lake Elsinore anymore, this was one of them. The sky was light pink, orange and blue, the grass was tall and whispering with the slight motion of the air, and while there was no hustle and bustle, you could feel that everyone was up, and we were all together. I felt peace. 

In the middle of my view I heard a man singing. A simple voice accompanied by cow bells. I looked down the street and it was an ancient looking villager walking his buffalo; there were four of them all together. He stopped right in front of me and his buffalo began to graze in the pasture. 

What a site. I have never before in my life seen a man walk buffalo down a street. I might as well have been in a cartoon or a book, I was so removed from my life that I questioned my existence. I walked over to him and asked if I could take a picture of the animals. He nodded with a smile and invited me to sit with him. 

As he spoke, so many feelings came over me. I felt like I knew him, understood him, like I had been there forever. He was born right where we sat, he learned husbandry from his family, and he’s never left the middle of Thailand. He sought for nothing more in life than to do well at what he knew. This village is as much a part of his DNA as anything else. As a lover of travel I wondered if such a still life is good?

Is it good to be happy and never know what else is out there? Is it bad to seek for more and be the Jonathan Livingston Seagulls of the world, who crash and burn? This man didn’t have the answers, but he was happy. He was not stressed, didn’t complain or bemoan his lot. He did his best and felt good about that. 

Maybe more rare than sitting next to buffalo, was sitting next to someone who was satisfied with their life.  It made me feel calm to enjoy a morning and not hear his complaints, or gossip, or disclaimers on why he’s not perfect. He made no apologies for his existence and invited me to enjoy him for as long as I wished. 

After sometime, we said our goodbyes and I walked back to the house. I sat on the porch and cried. I don’t know why. Maybe I felt stupid for running my life into the ground with stress, expectations and apologies. I felt like I wasted precious moments where I could have just been happy, without cause. I could have just been. Like the woman who made us breakfast and her mother who watered the garden, they were in service by choice and with love. They were happy to be there selfishly and selflessly all at the same time. It wasn’t mutually exclusive, their delight intertwined with ours. 

At that moment it hit me, I need to be a teacher. I need to learn as much as I can from my students and inspire them to be educated, not to aspire to take on the world, but to be content with knowing they already do. I realized I have to be a teacher because that is the only way I can learn. My knowledge is intertwined with that of the students. My happiness intertwines with their happiness.  

So what did this man say to bring about such an epiphany? What words of wisdom did he bestow on me? Your guess is as good as mine....I don’t speak Thai. 

[thewindowseat]

My Life as a Thai: From Oprah to Doprah - The Second Day of School

It’s like I’m foreign to them or something. The view of a walking zoo animal. 

BEING A TEACHER: TAKE 2

Ok, day one was a success, lets just do that again. Today I was a little less nervous because now I know how to fill the hour, I have adjusted some things to make them more understandable for the kids and day one went so great, this will be fun. Before I walk out the door I add a Plumeria flower in my hair. It’s their national flower that blooms throughout all the highways in the country. It might prevent me from being called The Farang, the term they use to affectionately refer to foreigners. Instead, I’ll be known as the Teacher with the Flower in Her Hair, it sounds so indigenous. 

I walk to school eating a shiny, red apple and think to myself, “I am a teacher. I teach things and kids love me.” In my head, I break out in song, “Oh what a beautiful mooooooorning, oh what a beautiful daaaaaaay...” I’m such a great singer in my head. 

I arrive and today I will teach the first graders for the first time. They’ll be my youngest students to-date, you know, since yesterday. With a skip in my step, I grab my supplies and hurry off to class. I head over to the first grade building, and as I round the corner, I say a prayer that might resemble a similar one from the second round of soldiers on Normandy, “If there’s a God, please help us all.” 

THE BATTLE ZONE

There are five classes in a row, all first graders. Each class has three doors spaced for the span of the room, and every single door faces me, open with children spilling out in complete chaos. And this isn’t the chaos like I saw in the rooms the day before, this is utter destruction. Girls are on the ground crying while boys have run off with their books, crayons, back packs, etc. Boys are hitting each other with brooms and eating like it’s lunch time or something. I see paper and pencils and chalk flying across all the rooms simultaneously. It’s as if I have walked into a prison for children, but today they rioted and the guards have been taken hostage. It is so loud with a language I can’t understand, I don’t know if they are making demands or telling jokes. The smell is that of a two day old diaper, and there is trash everywhere.

As I try to find my classroom, I pass a teacher with her head on the desk, as the anarchy ensues around her. The next classroom has a teacher screaming to the top of her lungs, but truthfully, I can’t even hear her. A male teacher runs out of the third classroom chasing a boy while the boy taunts him. The teacher carries a huge bamboo stick and is thrashing at the air trying to punish the boy. The boy finally jumps into the bushes and the teacher hacks at the plant like a weed wacker.  The boy is laughing hysterically, until somehow the teacher catches hold of his arm. I see the boys eyes immediately change and his entire body stiffens. He starts negotiating rapidly, and is interrupted by three short, sharp whips to his butt. I’m not used to this. I take a big gulp and hold back tears, I am not prepared for any of this. 

Me,on the second floor, hiding from first graders

As I make my way past the children, they screech when they see me. I start to collect them as I walk past each room and they hold on to me and my clothes until my stride slows to a stop, I’m enveloped with children. I try to smile and acknowledge them but eventually I have to get pushy and move through, like a confused cow. My class is the last room, of course. 

I walk in and a kid immediately runs up to me and points under my nose, I can tell what he’s saying. He’s saying I have a bugger in my nose. I know I don’t, I inspected myself vigorously before I left the house. None-the-less, I get self conscious. Suddenly all 45 students are laughing in disarray and repeating what the boy said. So much for Teacher with the Flower in Her Hair, I’m now known as Teacher Booger Nose. 

Where is my Thai co-teacher, they promised me one in every class? I can’t get command of the class, I do everything I can think of. Finally, when I bring out my pictures about half of them sit in their seats, generally observing. Then two boys sneak up behind me from out of my view and crawl under my skirt. I back up immediately into the chalk board that’s 100 years old. For all you teachers, you know this means that there is 100 years of chalk that has been generously moved around on it. But I take care of that because it’s now all over my professional, pencil skirt. 

I yell at the boys to sit down or leave the class. One mocks me, “Rawr or weew ree wee rerw.” That was his version of English. I take out the lolipops immediately, at this point I’m begging. Everyone jumps and cheers. I put my finger to my lips and point to the chairs, communicating, sit down and shut up. Everyone runs to their desks and sits down. Not quietly, but at least we’re getting somewhere. 

Next, I take out coloring sheets and start handing them out. The kids get excited to color and I ask them to practice their names by writing them at the top of the page. I have a list of students and go around to help all 45 write their names in English. While doing so, one boy smacks my butt and another puts a pencil in it. I scream! Well, that wasn’t on my bucket list. 

 I drop the lesson and start passing out candy to the kids that are quiet and have written their names. Eventually, they all simmer down and do this one task. I give them all candy, despite me not wanting to. Then ten minutes before the bell rings to signify the end of class, I leave. I run to my office and don’t look back. 

THE AFTERMATH

My other classes go much more like the day before, as they were second and third graders. At the end of the day I was still rattled and I sat at my desk quietly thinking about how ignorant I was. I didn’t go to school for education. I haven’t studied classroom methods and child theology to the extent of real grade school teachers. I am unmatched for this job. I am not a teacher, I am just a girl that can speak English. And if I’m honest with myself, I’m mediocre, at best, in that. 

Yogi comes in from his last class as I am packing up to go home, “How did your second day go?” he asks with a big smile. I explain a small portion of what happened and he giggles. We talk about his experiences and then he offers some advice, “Never start a fight you can’t finish,” he warns. “You did the right thing, you adjusted and you stayed the course, that’s all you can do.” He made a good point. I can’t go toe-to-toe with six-year-olds, they are going to win. 

Well that was enough for one day, I’m heading home to contemplate my life choices. 

So precious when they’re not all in one room. 

[thewindowseat]

My Life as a Thai: If you can’t beat ‘em - get a pet spider

I look up from my lonely bed an I see two spiders mating above me. The ceiling is too high or I’d kill them just for mocking me. 

It is a serious jungle out here! Everywhere I go there are wild, creepy, crawlers fighting for life, and I’m not just talking about the school kids. 

It slowly starts when the sun goes down. I can’t even leave my house because that’s when our gangs come out. The dangerous, drug dealing dogs that sleep in the streets by day and smuggle black market products by night. And I don’t mean dawg...I mean actual dogs. I know these creatures scam the streets by night because what else could they possibly be doing when everyone else is asleep? 

You have to be a smart dog to survive Thailand. They’re born orphans, their mothers most likely starved to death feeding them, and they had to find their own way from birth, i.e eating out of trashcans, stealing from other dogs and not getting run over by a scooter. Only the cunning ones make it, and they all grow up to be thugs. 

They will literally sleep in the middle of a freeway during the day, and take a dump in front of the cart where you buy your fried rice at dinner. These bastards don’t care at all. At midnight they start to call each other to action. They begin with a bark, first one, then two then the entire neighborhood is barking in unison. Then they howl like a trumpet meant only for thieves. A forewarning for townspeople that it’s their time now. Everyone else makes their way inside  to avoid the ogling and threatening, unsolicited growls of the strays. 

Like downtown crack-whores, never make eye contact! Especially if you’re holding food, and you never address them them when they saunter towards you barking obscenities or sniffing around. You keep your eyes straight, shoulders back and don’t break stride, eventually you will pass them and they’ll lay down. 

It’s natural to want to be kind and generous to the dogs, we come from a land where dogs want love. But these beasts are beyond that. Thai people are incredibly kind and friendly but they aren’t touchy people. So even pets don’t seek physical attention because they aren’t used to it. So don’t try to treat this baller, shot-caller like a poor child without a mother. He has a mother, da hood is his mother! 

However, there is a very old dog that belongs to my next door neighbor. He’s, blind and scared of his own shadow (Who, the neighbor or the dog? Both!). They don’t use leashes here so sometimes the owner will get the dog into the house by holding the dogs two front legs making it walk on it’s hind legs. It’s very funny. Lately, he has been laying at my door step when I am in the house (Not the neighbor, don’t be ridiculous). The dogs presence makes me feel owned and I like that, so I buy him treats and give him one a day. He won’t take them from me, so usually I end up throwing them, hitting him in the head and jolting him awake. Poor dog. 

Besides the gangster dogs, the roosters are up at 2am, and they yell through the day. I don’t know what their deal is, but they certainly have a lot to say. Then the cats chime in. They are as feral as the dogs, but they don’t run in packs, they are killing each other. At first it’s sad, another poor, screaming cat is being murdered, but then you just see it as cat control. 

And that’s just the outside! Don’t get me started on the inside, I have to keep the toilet seat down so the snakes don’t get in. Then I have  a special ritual dance before I walk through my screen door from the bathroom to the bedroom. Why is there a screen door you ask stupidly? Because there are millions of mosquitoes, you American idiot and you can’t just lock up a wet room all day or there will be more mosquitoes. Those tiny tiny little buggers sashay their way into my room and eat me alive. 

Beyond that,I have to keep my sinks closed so the cockroaches don’t scare the heck out of me while walking to the toilet at night. When they do get in, they act like I scared them! They are nervy, rude and unfortunately, too big for even my assortment of lizards to eat. 

Lizards, ugh! Never mind that they run through my house like an adult child that lives in their parents basement only to come upstairs to heat up food and take it back down to their Emo lair. I pay the rent around here, you could sit and converse a little! (...and I’m just noticing this new rock bottom I’ve hit) 

After all that, I have to kill the occasional huge black spider without a name. How am I to kill these things, is always the question? I can’t hit it with a shoe, they are so big, they would literally ruin my shoe, or take it from me and hit me with it. I can’t wash them down the drain, that’s like trying to get an ex out of your house by spraying them with water. You’re just going to make everything wet, make them angrier, and they are still going to be there because water doesn’t hurt anything except witches from the North. 

Last week I tried to kill a baby eight-legger, and it ran from water. It literally out ran water. Great, it’s cunning, swift and spry, just what I want in a house spider. My only solace is that its feeding on the mosquitoes that feed on me. 

Side note, today I saw a huge ant in my house, I mean this thing had muscles and a shirt that said “Do you even lift, bro?” I was going to kill him but I got distracted. Two minutes later he was being devoured by a million tiny ants. I was shocked at how fast the animal kingdom turns on one another. So I sprayed them all with bug spray. No one is safe! 

Today I went to my sink and guess who was there, my little baby eight-legger. Except he had grown into a teenage sized spider (Why does he have to be a he? Ugh, the feminist in me is so annoying). It’s really been eating well while hiding, I see. I try to kill it again and it hops and blends in with the black tile. How does it know what color the tiles are? I look at it and realize it’s been raised in this house, and the next time it decides to jump out at me, it’ll be an adult, and I can’t kill an adult I practically raised...I mean as much as my parents raised me. Gave me a roof and let me graze on crap I found in the house. So now I have a dog and a pet spider, this place is getting crowded! 

The wildest animals of all! 

[thewindowseat]

My Life as a Thai: Teaching is Like Being Oprah

Let’s call this one, The Face of Fear

I awoke after a deeply stressful night’s sleep (if you can call it that). I have been in the country 3 days and now I have to teach. Let me be clear, I am not qualified to teach children. I am not really qualified to teach anyone. I don’t speak any Thai, so I can’t even explain to the kids what I’m trying to teach them. I just received my curriculum the yesterday, and all I am equipped with is 600 lollipops that I brought from home. My strategy: to give the kids candy and figure it out later. 

As I walk the three blocks to school my stomach drops, “What the HECK was I thinking?” Why must I do this to myself? I just say yes and put no thought at all into what I’m actually going to have to do. “yes yes yes es es es ssss,” ugh, I make myself sick. Ok, no time for self-loathing, get it together Brittany, we have three classes today, that’s 150 students. Just smile and look the part. 

I go to my office, and meet Yogi. He’s the cool teacher, and the only other native English speaker at the school (If you call England speak, English). He has lived here seven years with his Thai girlfriend, Oy. I tell Yogi I am supposed to teach high school and my experience in teaching is with that age group. “Well there was a last minute change you will teach all Kindergarten through third grade.” He says with a striking accent, “The kids are cute as buttons, don’t worry, just smile. If the kids are happy, learning is secondary here,” Ok, that’s helpful information. Goal, smile and make sure the kids are happy. That’s easy compared to teaching. 

We go to assembly and everyone is staring at me. There is absolutely no way I can fade into the background. 2,000 sets of eyeballs are on me as we bow to the flag and the school recites their pledge of allegiance and sing songs. “Come up and introduce yourself, Brittany,” Yogi summons me. “And here is Teacher Rose!” He announces with enthusiasm. He puts down the mic, winks at me and whispers, “They’d never be able to say your name.” I say something dry and shy and step off the stage. Yogi doesn’t hide his embarrassment for me, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it here.”

The bell rings and it’s time for my first class. I take my pictures from home, my candy, my backpack, which is basically like carrying around a pacifier and blanky, as it’s just something I need to feel safe. I walk up the old wooden stairs into the outdoor, bungalow classrooms in rows of five. There are stacks of black shoes outside each door. I can’t find any words in English all the classrooms are numbered in Thai. I know this is how I looked as a freshman in high school, so well intended and yet completely lost. I hear my voice in my head, “Seriously, what the HECK were you thinking?” 

A Thai teacher sees me and immediately runs out of her class and points to the room as she whizzes by me. I peak inside to see a third grade class full of kids playing, laughing, wrestling and throwing paper airplanes. I see I am equipped with an almost fully formed wooden floor, a cracked chalk board and long bamboo reeds to hit the kids, as needed (Which I would never do in a million years). 

I’m spotted by one of the animals...er, children. Suddenly, instinctively, they all look at me, stop what they are doing, stand up straight and put their hands in prayer form, “Good morning Teacher Rose,” they shout. “Uh, good morning, class,” I stammer. “Am fine thank you and you?” They retort. I giggle, “I’m fine thank you, please sit down.” They’re not done yet, “Thank you Teacher Rose.” 

I begin to show pictures of my home back in Cali and as I show each photograph the kids clap and cheer. I was taken aback at how excited they were to see pictures of my home. They ooh’d and ahh’d over everything I showed them.  

We made name cards and practiced, “My name is...” A select few know their name in English. Each child is given an English name at birth, like a middle name. They are named after family, friends, a dad’s favorite beer, words that the parents like, random stuff like that. They are rarely ever actual English names. The most common ones are, Pancake, Ice, Pooh, Mix and First. 

The kids go crazy when they see the candy and I give it to each student after they repeat the phrase, “My name is...” with their name. They are so shy and their skills are non-existent with English. Their excitement goes into overdrive as they start taking pictures of me and video taping me handing out candy. This situation is very foreign to all of us. I’m one of very few white people they have seen. 

The rest of my classes go generally go the same way. I’m greeted with cheers and applause and I feel like Oprah, or Brittany Spears before the meltdown. At the end of the day, I start to believe I’m a real teacher. I taught them something, a useful phrase. 

I sit in my office in the English Department, which consists of an actual brick and mortar room where I have my own blue plastic chair and Yogi made me a cardboard name plate for my desk, so it’s pretty official that I’m a professional now. 

The kids come to the door to look at me. They giggle and speak Thai and it pains me to not understand them. They earnestly want to talk to me. Sometimes they yell out, “Teacher Rose, beautiful.” Oh my gosh these little things are precious. In clumps of five or ten at a time it seems every student in the school visits me. They huddle outside the open office door and peer in through the doorway. 

Well it’s official, I’m kinda a big deal. This teaching stuff is easy, I can’t wait for tomorrow. 

#clueless

[thewindowseat]

My Life as a Thai: Day 2 - The Adjustment

Every view on a motorbike is a window seat view. Life doesn’t just look different from this seat, it feels different. 

To say this place is foreign is an understatement; and there’s no preparation for culture shock. This is the 18th time I’ve landed in a new country, and it really doesn’t get any easier as far as the adjustment goes. 

After a night at the hotel on a wooden bed, I wake up to a beautiful winter’s day at 80 degrees and 57% humidity. I don’t think I’m going to wear clothes in this country! I hear the news over head. Small towns in Thailand have the news broadcast so everyone is up to date on current events. It’s very WWII sounding. It makes me feel safe hearing the stern voice overhead; like God is playing a joke on me and speaking in gibberish to confuse me. He would do that. 

I signed my life away at my new employers office and hit the bus station. Just eight hours until I’m home. Not knowing when I will arrive, where I will have to go when I arrive and what exactly my new address is, I start to wonder, “What the HECK was I thinking?” Only I would pack my bags and ask questions later. It’s amazing my innards haven’t been harvested yet, I’m clearly a willing participant, as I will buy my own plane ticket and come to you! 

Anyway, during my mini-melt down, I realize that it’s all going to be ok. Sure I don’t have a plan, information, or much money...but when has that ever stopped me? The bus trip acts as a training class on what will unfold as an immigrant in Thailand, Lesson #1, Food-ish. 

1) In Southeast Asia, if you smell something sour, bitter, with a hint of ecoli - that’s going to be your dinner. The food here is really interesting,  it’s never going to be comfort food, or overly filling. I have to get used to the fact that I will be full and not bloated. It’s almost like my food alarm won’t go off and I have to just decide when I’m full. Regardless, whenever I’m hungry, I have learned to follow the disgusting smells and it will take me to a toilet or food, and usually I need both, so it works out. 

The toilets are another subject. I had to pay 2 bhat to use the toilets during the long ride. That amount of money doesn’t register to us Americans because it doesn’t exist yet. It’s the fetus of money, enough of it is money, but on it’s own it’s worthless. It’s like saying you owe me .06 of a penny (The exact amount it equals). While the toilets are cheap compared to Europe, I had to learn to squat over the porcelain and deal with no tp, no soap, no trash, and only a bucket and spray nozzle to keep me company. Lesson #2, learn how to toilet. 

2) One does not simple pick-up a bidet an use it: these little sprayers are actually really sanitary and feel nice and cool on a warm winter day. But they are not for the inexperienced. If you pick one up and aim recklessly, that sucker will turn you into a Barbie doll faster than you can yell Ken. On the other hand some will dribble like drool from a baby’s mouth. Ideally, it’s nice to have a happy medium. Also, the squat toilets have become quite comfortable to me, but not if I’m sick, then I really need a lazy-girl seat. And flushing is something we do by hand. We scoop up a pot full of water and wash down the contents. This makes for incredibly wet bathrooms floors so bring your flippers. 

I arrived at 10pm to my new home. My landlords were at the bus station to pick me up. “Speak Thai?” The husband asked kindly, “No,” I say with a whine, trying not to sound curt. We only had to drive 1 mile in silence and on my way I realized I had lost my head phones. In case you like drinking games, you can play one with how much stuff I have lost since I’ve been here... two days. I guess this will be Lesson #3 - Thailand has a purge theme for me, let it go!  

I get to my new home. I’m happy to see I have a shower. Normally people use buckets and little pots to pour water over themselves, generally the same water they use to flush a toilet and the same pot too.  But I have a sprayer, so nah nah nah nah boo boo, on you!  I celebrate the small things then throw my stuff on the bed, “CRACK!” I heard something that clearly broke. It was my cellphone case, ugh, I can tell this bed isn’t any softer than the last. Guess I’ll just have to ...adjust. Goodnight. 

I tell people I live in the “pink houses” and they know exactly where I am. 

[thewindowseat]

My Life as a Thai: A Buddhist Christmas

This was not how I wanted to spend Christmas! I was raised with a family who breathed Christmas all year long. My mom buys several trees every year, for heaven’s sake. We do Christmas big: food, songs, games, friends, neighbors, it’s an ordeal. And everyone gets a gift! My mom has more spare, carefully wrapped gifts than the real Santa. When it comes to Christmas, she is Oprah, “You get a present, you get a present, you get a present.” And everyone loves it! 

But not this Christmas. This year I live in a Buddhist country and happen to have an almost expired visa. This means I have to take a bus cross-country to Laos and get everything squared away. This is basically like taking a four day trip to the DMV; complete with lines, grumpy foreigners and no cheeriness whatsoever. 

I had to ride the worst bus, no air, no food, no stops, just a stinky bus full of hot people (Not Paris Hilton hot, but plumber in the sun hot). I sat in front of a monk, hes not allowed to touch me or touch things I’ve touched, but so I put two mandarin oranges next to him. He smiles and hands me an iced coffee in respect to my holiday, “Merry Christmas” he says in a thick Asian accent. I smile, it doesn’t feel like Christmas, it feels like a Tuesday in the middle of Summer. 

Four hours later I reach the Laos border, take another bus into town, and soon realize that not only do these people not speak Thai, but they use different currency and they’ll take my currency but I’ll pay three times what it costs. So a soda in Thailand costs me 12 bhat. In Laos the sweet, ancient women took 40 from my wad of bills and raised one eye brow like she was doing me a favor, and actually she was, but still not the Christmas spirit. 

What a bust. Please end day, please. No offense Jesus, but seriously even you have to be tired of today. 

So I was told there was one single Catholic church in the town of Savannakhet, where the consulate is. I walk for two hours and scourge the city to no avail. I pray out loud, since people think I’m just a crazy foreigner anyway, “C’mon Lord, it’s Christmas, let me just see a tiny token of Jesus today!” Still nothin’! 

Instead I find a million Buddhist relics and obviously, they mean nothing to me. I even find an abandoned temple that is super eerie, like the wild west. Basically, a place the homeless and stray dogs made a home.  I walk through the abandoned buildings quietly, as if not to disturb the force. Actually there are still candles, gifts and offerings to Buddha. 

While these visions are beautiful and interesting, I cant understand how people believe in this stuff. Buddha is a dead mortal, he doesn’t receive the gifts, he doesn’t assist from the grave. These people just put this stuff around their cities unnecessarily, for their own personal hope. 

At this point it’s been hours of being lost, hungry and full of Buddha, I am done for the day. I head back to the direction of my hotel, and to in several circles. My phone dies and I am starting to get concerned because i am in a three mile radius and my phone can’t even find my hotel. “Could this day get any more obnoxious?” I think, over and over again. Finally, I round a corner that I know I have rounded twenty times previously, but his time, a new relic I have yet to see in Asia. It’s a cross. It sits proudly atop a large, white church with tons of beautiful christian statues in the front garden. 

What a beacon of light,. An emblem that I am not alone in my Christianity. I have a beautiful place to be quiet and silent and remember that Jesus was born, lived a complete life and died, as a mortal. But wait there’s more, during my little tour, I find a beautiful celebration of Christmas. 

Look at that, it’s Baby Jesus and a ton of Christmas ornaments. It reminds me of how both of my moms decorate for the holidays. What a beautiful site, and then it hits me...I am adoring relics. Stupid pieces of plastic and glass that represented a person who died, just to feel hope. I guess that makes me a little Buddhist now, doesn’t it? 

As I finally find my hotel (by nothing short of a Christmas miracle) I think of how important hope is to everyone and whomever we get it from, it all ends up in the same place, our hearts. 

It’s a good thing I am thinking about hope because with the hotel room I can afford, I would need it.  As the guy walks me to my room he says, “Oh, by the way, we have no hot water. Good night.” Merry Freakin’ Christmas! 

So, with all the bravery I can muster, I take a very quick shower, and just hope tomorrow I can get my visa and get the heck out of there. I shower on the toilet, even my well traveled nomads would be appalled.

At that point, I am seriously contemplating my life choices. How can I end up like this? Poor, dirty and not even celebrating Christmas with some dignity. What has my life come to when on Christmas day I am showering on a toilet in Laos? I say a prayer out loud, “Oh my Savior, what a day. I’m sorry, but this day sucked! And...I’m sorry this day sucked.” Who am I more sad for, Him or me? 

And in this instant I hear a loud, booming voice, “It’s my birthday, celebrate your own birthday your way!” I st down to think about what those words meant. Never mind the hallucinations, it’s true. How rude is it for me to put expectations on someone else’s birthday? It’s as if my my sister called me on September 29th and said, “Wow, today was horrendous.” I’d be like, “So what? Get your own day, Trick!” 

The fact is, I was called here. I prayed about it, I made a conscious decision, and Jesus’s birthday belongs to Him. I celebrated it by seeking out meaningless relics that mean something to me. they mean hope, and that I share faith with others all the way around the world.  

Also I found other relics that bring hope to my brothers and sisters. I spent the day getting to know His people, my family from another continent. And if I happen to be so cheap that I actually march all over town until I find the cheapest hotel, that doesn’t ruin Jesus’ birthday, it just changes it. 

As much as I love how both of my moms decorate and cook and buy me gifts, that has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. Those are things that I have placed value on, and they have zero to do with the birth of a man that lived a life for me. My Christmas is in me doing the same for him, no matter where in the world I am. 

So Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. 

[thewindowseat]

My Life as A Thai: Dear Japanese, I owe you an apology

The dirt on the mirror represents the scars of life...oh forget it, it’s a crap selfie

The first Japanese tourist I had seen was actually at Disneyland. It was the 80’s and it was a man, at least my eight year-old-self assumed it was a man. He had a straight, edged bowl-cut and wore a huge camera around his neck. He took pictures of everything. I remember thinking he was so weird. He didn’t look like anyone I had ever seen before, like human but not like me human. He was totally foreign with his squinty eyes and taking pictures of completely random stuff like people in lines, signs, plants, stuff that wasn’t even original to the theme park. I really thought he was mentally handicapped.

And that was the day my racism was born. I saw this man who was clearly an adult, stumble around and act nonsensical to my tiny world. I figured wherever he was from must, for sure, have sub-par education and be completely desolate not to have cheap carnations and signs that said Exit. Poor dope.

Thailand Taxis

And like most things, once I made up my mind, I considered it truth and never really considered anything else again, even if I was only under the age of ten. The Japanese take pictures of everything and don’t have civilization.

As I’ve grown and matured, I realize that now all stereo-types are accurate, but that one actually was. Lots of Japanese people took tons of pictures. They were to photo albums, what Millennials are to selfies;  and now 25 years later I am the Japanese (let’s not get caught up in the math, ok?)

Here I am, in a country that is so completely exotic and I’m the one taking pictures of signs and normal things. I’m the one with the weird wavy blond hair that smiles and nods when people try to speak in me in Thai, completely stupefied at every sound and noise I these people make. Today I took a picture of three stray dogs, cats, grade school children and an ice cream cone. If that’s not the photo portfolio of someone mentally slow, I don’t know what is.

Stray cats you can pretty much see on every single continent

The point is, even the exit signs look totally different. I mean, the colors and symbols…the toilet for heaven’s sake – it’s all so foreign. And when people see me, they barely see a human being, my kind doesn’t translate here. I am one of six white people that live in this entire city. That’s it, just our little gang and people don’t really notice us unless we walk together. Today I had to run across a busy street because the police man didn’t stop traffic for me. It’s not that he was being racist or a jerk, he literally didn’t see me. It’s like a stray dog or a lizard on the side of the road, you don’t know what they want, if anything at all; thus, you don’t assume, you just move on with your way. I’m the stray dog in this story, people can’t even pretend to understand me, so they just gloss over me.  

Local Market -  equivalent to Walmart

Anyway, I will continue to take pictures and smile at people that speak Thai to me in the street. Although, I did stop smiling at a lady that kept trying to get me on her scooter, she follows me to the market on Saturdays, and it doesn’t matter how many times I say “No thank you” in Thai, she just rides beside me. Maybe we’re dating. See, these are the quandaries of the non-natives. Just let us take our pictures, for the love of glory! It’s all we got.

Until next time…I’ll be snapping shots from the happiest place on Earth, here.

A street.....and a man fishing for food to sell at the market. 

(This one is actually kind of cool).