Tagged: reflection

Smug

“Yeah, when I was in New York on business…”

“Those 2 weeks I was in the U.S…”

“The food is terrible… all those hamburgers and hot dogs…”

“American culture?  What culture?”

“There’s not much history there, is there?”

“Ugh, that American accent… I can’t understand a thing!”

“The thing about Americans is…”

 

I mold my teeth back into a stiff-lip chiclet smile.  Heh, heh.  Very amusing.  They look so comfortable, self-assuredly snickering at a caricature of a country they love to shit on.

I observe with fascination the smug joy in their eyes, the derisive wheezy laugh.  All driven by a glaringly misguided, yet gloriously seductive need to be better than.

Why should I rain on their shit-parade?  I wouldn’t dare spoil their moment of naive delight by questioning their pseudo-intellectual, stunningly brash hubris.  There are indeed plenty of things to criticize, sure, but they’re pulling at low-hanging rotten fruit.  The bland revelation is too simple, too deliciously satisfying to resist.

Is this how they go through life?  Satisfied with a facile, self-serving version of reality, with no desire to learn more?

I’m not offended at their (perhaps unintentionally) injurious comments; that would be too easy.  No, I’m learning.  This is a pernicious trap of logic, a hasty generalization.  Such exchanges remind me to work to avoid this pitfall myself.

“Mm-hmm.  Whatever you say.  On to page 2…”

Snapshot: Lost

The man I had seen in the same café the day before passed by on his bike.  “Can I help you get somewhere in particular?”  Bashful, I replied, “No, thanks; just trying to get my bearings, is all.”  He poked his head toward me.  “Huh?”

“I’m trying to get my bearings.”

“You mean, find out where you’re at?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.  Good luck with that.”

 

He pedaled away, leaving me alone with my map.

 

You can’t find your way around if you haven’t decided where you’re going.

No

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going wherever this pencil takes me

 

Every No is a chance to learn something.  Every closed door, every rejection, every empty inbox.  Every outpouring of effort that fails to make even the tiniest ripple.  Every twinge of disappointment, every shameful time you realize that you don’t measure up.

 

Nos hurt; they make you question what you’re doing and why you do it.  But this is exactly why Nos are also a great impetus for growth.  Why are you doing that?  Is there something to learn here?  Is that No a permanent roadblock?

 

Yes can be too easy.  Yes absolves you from the responsibility of reflection.  Yes tells you what you’re doing right, not what you need to work on.  Yes makes you soft.

 

I’m on a mission to collect Nos.  I have a lot to learn.

Thursday

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my buddy, the carrier pigeon

 

Walking through the vineyards on my way to the train station, my carrier pigeon buddy arrives to escort me to the station.  He coo-coos alongside me until we reach the threshold between nature and civilization.  There, his red beady eyes wink me a “Good luck.”  Thanks, pal.

 

Arriving in town, it’s one of those days where I want to say “Fuck my job.”  What am I, some kind of language workhorse?  I resent the fact that the corporate masters own my time, even if it’s just 5 hours today.  That’s 5 hours off my dreaming time.

All the same, I’m in town, and at least for now, I am indebted to my corporate masters.  Unseasonably cold winds tug at my coattails, and my head is pounding for an unknown reason.

I tiptoe erratically around the sidewalk, studded with trampled bits of dog shit.  No way am I getting my red leather boots dirty.  The cold air invades my nostrils and freezes my brain, aggravating my headache.  The fragrance of the first spring cherry blossoms irritates me even more.

The area around the train station is a lot better-kept than in other cities; no seedy sex shops or vaguely-disguised titty bars to be seen, no cannabis fumes in the air; just nondescript bistros that are a bit too antiseptic for my liking.  I peek into one, and a middle-aged cook eerily stares back at me, while he scrubs an already-spotless zinc countertop with a clean white towel.  Even their ashtrays are immaculate.  Freaky.

I approach the monolithic structure, the medieval castle, squatting in the middle of town.  Just across the street from its fat, monstrous towers sits another bakery, more modern with dark hardwood floors, and an alluring glow to its sandwiches and pastries that sit on deep blue-gray ardoise slate slabs.  I pick up a kouign amann, a Breton specialty:  it’s a crispy, flaky, buttery sticky bun.  The hammering in my head starts to subside when I take a bite of the luscious pastry.

As I chew and walk on, I’m peeking into chic restaurants, neighborhood barbershops, deserted bookshops and quiet upscale boutiques.  A stylish woman walks past, and the sickly sweet cloud of her perfume chokes me as she walks past, her heels confidently stabbing the ground with each step.  I catch myself feeling inadequate in her presence, and I think back to a former student of mine, who was a picture of perfection:  successful, affluent, immaculately dressed and coiffed.  Yet her eyes had glistened with desperation when she confided how deeply she regretted the direction in which her life had gone.  I wonder what happened to her.

I drop into another favorite spot, a red-bannered bakery run by a genial bald-headed baker, who always seemed to be dusting flour off his hands and apron in a cloud of magic.  His breads and pastries are some of the best in town, and I order a sandwich for lunch.  He grabs one off the top of the stack with his large hands, knobby and solid from a lifetime of kneading dough.

Finally, I slide into my favorite café, a neighborhood dig that’s clean, with a good atmosphere, and proprietors that leave you alone to think.  I’d like to think I’m becoming a regular, alongside the old salty Italian man who critiques the French and their politics between sips of red wine, rolling his Rs and calling everyone cons (dumbasses)…

I ease into the seat next to the door and order an espresso with water.  I catch a cool draft every time the door opens, along with a few wisps of cigarette smoke that sneak in.  I don’t mind.  I’m surrounded by rough caw-caw guffaws.  The server who’s about my age, the older couple that runs the joint, and the old-dog regulars; they laugh and gibe between bites of food, sips of wine, drags of cigarettes.  Like a goddamn family sitcom.  They’ve got nowhere else to be, except there, giggling and shooting the shit.  Hell, neither do I.

I realize my headache has ceased.

I’m satisfied with life in this moment, and smile into my hot cup of black coffee.

Just another Thursday.

Aprende!

“I don’t get it.”

Hands up in the air, head shaking, breath hissing in exasperation, body leaning back as far as humanly possible from the table.  Downturned haddock mouth, brow furrowed, head slouching into a temple massage, fingers tense and aggravated.

It never ceases to amaze me, that this behavior comes from grown-ass adults: parents, doctors, lawyers, accountants, managers, generally functioning members of society.

Sometimes, I stare blankly back in response.  No follow-up question, no attempt at clarification.  I see expectancy and hope looking back at me; these are eyes that just want the answer, dammit!

When I see my adult students react poorly to frustration, I think back to my childhood.  When my father spoke to me in Spanish and I didn’t understand, or when I had a difficult homework assignment, he’d nod his head in exasperation and exclaim:  “Aprende!”  Learn!

If only those were the magic words.  “I don’t get it,” and instantly, you’re exonerated from the responsibility of mental exertion.

In a perfect world, I just give the damn answer, and we can all move on!

In the world of language learning, that just doesn’t cut it.

The moments of frustration, mental blanks, forgetting what we’ve seen dozens of times before… Years of experience have taught me that that is where true language acquisition happens.  Learning to navigate through those difficult moments, to roll with them, not allowing them to completely block us:  these skills differentiate between those who will succeed, and those who will not.

Alleviating a short moment of frustration by giving the easy way out does a disservice to the student.  They are freed from the obligation to try, and thereby cheated out of an opportunity to learn.  I want to echo my dad’s simple, yet timeless nugget of truth:  Aprende!

 

Sing

I wake up to the sound of the wind screaming outside.  I’m breathing heavily from the nightmare I’ve just been freed from.  The window shade is rattling, and my windows are creaking.

The wind moans over the sound of the grains in my bread crackling in the toaster.  It haunts me as I get dressed and zip up my boots.  As strong as the wind is now, it’s nothing compared to what I’ll meet on the walk to the station.

I carefully tie my hair and scarf to keep them under control, and my resolve is firm when I turn the key to lock my door.  No turning back now.

 

I ascend the hill near my sheep buddies, and their matted wool and stoic gazes are unmoving in this tempest.  Spindly branches whip above my head, and I skirt quickly away from the groaning trees.

My usually peaceful country path is now unfamiliar in its aggression.  The wind is so powerful, I can’t walk straight, and I fear it’ll rip my contact lenses straight out of my eyes.  Wincing into each step, I hear nothing but howling in my ears.

Nothing but howling?

I can fix that.

I start singing.  Each gust threatens to cut off my breath, but I can’t miss this perfect opportunity to belt out some great disco hits.  This is a walk from hell, but I can either bitch and moan into the breeze, or smile and sing into it.  The latter is way more fun.

I imagine a winegrower sipping his morning coffee, further down in the valley, catching the tune as it’s carried over on a strong gust.  He taps his foot and hums along, in harmony with my vocals.  The wind screams for an encore.  I take a bow, board my train, and leave it wanting more.

Mortify

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Onstage, seated cross-legged in front of a full audience.  I paint on my most charming smile, and begin speaking into the mic.  In the midst of the first wave of applause, I realize:  my script is missing.  The auditorium hushes, and I’m nervously fluttering through my binders.  I hear spectators growing restless, shifting from one buttcheek to the other in their seats, and I’m feeling panicked.  I look over my shoulder, and am sickened to see that offstage, she’s got my script.  Smiling, her face says, “How you like me now?”
I wake up with the same tight stomach.
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Mortification is a word that’s followed me closely in my journey through life, like a pathetically faithful three-legged dog with fleas.
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I think back to my first teaching job, and the little black nob protruding from the ceiling in every classroom:  CCTV.
I knew that classes were recorded, for evaluation purposes…  it wasn’t until a couple years in, that I realized everything was being recorded.  Whether there was a class or not, the cameras were rolling.  I instinctively cringe recalling the things I did while on camera.

I broke down crying at my desk before class.

I shook my booty to reggaeton music.

I bit my nails.

I had private telephone conversations.

I did unladylike things.

Those shining moments were captured, in addition to my horrific first forays into teaching:  kids scribbling on the walls, scooting around the classroom, slinging various objects, and stupefied Me in the eye of the pandemonium, pulling my hair out.

I can imagine the wide-eyed bewildered look of whatthef*ck on my supervisors’ faces when they sat down to replay and evaluate my classes.  I imagine they learned much more about me than they bargained for.
Now, looking back on that time, I wonder if there wasn’t a shred of pity in their eyes when they spoke to me.
I shudder, and come zooming back to the Present.  I could chastise myself for ever being that foolish.  But, knowing that Mortification will eventually come back to me, I prefer to laugh at myself.  It may not be pleasant, but it’s there to teach me a lesson.