October 30

This summer, while I was in an art store in Newport with my family, I picked up a journal, yellow with big white letters on the cover reading, “She decided to start living the life she imagined”. Now me, I am quixotic and ridiculous like this, fell in love with the phrase, with its meaning and the way it looks and sounds strung into a row, and my grandma bought it for me, saying, “You must write in it while you are in Cambodia”, ecstatic at my new possession, my intentions were and are deliberate in matching title and content. And now here I am, months later, in Cambodia, on the back of a motorbike for 20 K, on my way to a waterfall just out of Sihanoukville, on a quiet red dirt road, lush green on both sides, the wind in my hair, my spirit free and independent, thinking that situations like this exceed any expectation or imagined plan for my life at 19. And I wondered again to myself, “Right now, is the life I'm choosing to the live the one I imagined?” Where has my youth gone? I wonder this at times, Nada Surf's "The Blankest Year" blasts from my headphones, comes on when I shuffle songs on my ipod, "Oh, to hell with it," it repeats, in catchy melody, drums and simple bar chords, "I"m gonna throw a party" Such simplicity, irresponsibility in life has its short-lived joys, light-hearted, good energy, yet this kind of life is not mine, it cannot be for me. I look at my life, I am 19 years old, I work long hours, wake up early in the morning, stay up late worrying about the grades of my students, their well-being, if they will pass or fail. I am a missionary, careful in the things I wear, say, in the example I give. I yell and scream, suffer myself and make others suffer for their insubordination. I ask myself this as I ride down the road, the voices in my head argue, destructive of the solitude and peace I once felt from the wind blowing through my hair. I live on my own in a 3rd world country, with lots of people putting their trust in me, in my abilities and in my knowledge. Is this the life I imagined? I will keep writing and you can keep reading, and then maybe you will know.

Ly Heng, my first grade student with great English, asked me where I was going for Christmas. I told him that I was going to the United States to see my family, and all of the kids in the first row that could hear past the giggling and squirliness of group coloring, yelled out, “Me go with you!” Ly Chard’s eyes got all big, “Me go with you!” Chhoun and Ly Chard both grabbed my hands, “If I not go with you, I will cry!” “I want to take you with me,” I said to both of them, “But I have no money. You need a lot of money. Do you have a lot of money?” Both Chhoun and Chard in unison, sang “I have! I have!” And they went on to write numbers of thousands of reil they had in the air with their pencils (4000 reil is equivalent to $1 US), “I have lots of money!” Chard kept going, “And I will stay with you, in the house you, and I will sleep in the bed with you.” Chhoun wants to sleep outside, and Lasa, the smallest boy in my class, perked up his head, “Teacher!" he said beaming, "I will sleep in the room!” “You go to the U.S., Will you come back?” Ly Heng asked. And before I could answer, students started yelling, and Chard's eyes got all glassy, “Come back! Come back! Come back!”

rithya (ritt-tee--ya)

October 24

I have a certain pride issue that feels insulted when anyone thinks I could be anything but good and okay. I am fine and strong and everyone loves me. I have no problems, no struggles, and I bend over backwards to please them all. And yet I stand incredibly sensitive in a country with no tact, no skill or familiarity in diplomacy or civility. Where I don’t know if I’m to yell at someone or just stand there wounded, in a country where I don’t know what to think of myself, because I have no idea what anyone else might think of me (until arriving upon today’s epiphany that I just can’t and don’t care, and that I have plenty of people back at home, and even in Cambodia, who love me for exactly who I am and that’s more than enough). My first graders love me, I know this; they keep me alive and warm-blooded and sane (the love goes both ways). Yet as much as 30 students can change your life (and already have), the rest of the world is there to pound on you, and the devil knows your weaknesses and can use them in the most unlikely places. Other faculty, the whole education system, middle school students, parents, the fact that an arse (pardon my lame euphemism) in the higher elementary kicked Sotha so hard he was sobbing and couldn’t breathe; he comes into my classroom most breaks and after school, muttering Khmer phrases with dirty looks on his face, a bitter moment in this blurry experience of being lost in translation, a situation that is becoming increasingly difficult to just ignore.

Female teachers in their forties, come to me, and say, in front of students in all grades of either sex, that they like or dislike my breasts, that they notice what type of bra I wear because of the way they sag or don’t sag, and that when I sit up straight, they look nice and full, and when I slouch down I look like an old man. Awkward, intrusive statements are no big deal, and I feel picked apart from people from any age, and for the first time, just wish my youth would wither away and no one would care at all how I looked or how far my stomach sticks out or what kind of shoes I wear. Surprised and confused about how materialistic people seem to be in this country, with burning trash on most roadsides, naked and poor children on every street corner. Maybe it's a good distraction, or ignorance (or more like denial) is bliss. I guess I understand, but sometimes I wish I didn't.

A student in my 8th grade prayed that all the good students could go to heaven and the rest would go to hell, and after he said Amen and there was a roar of laughter, I first felt furious at their disrespect, which soon turned to disillusionment in the way in which we are teaching or showing Christianity in the mission field, or anywhere really. Everyone wants to go to heaven and no one wants to die. I read once from an Aaron Weiss interview in Relevant Magazine that the Christianity he had witnessed seemed to be so entirely focused on the afterlife (you will be rewarded in heaven, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord) But what about the life I'm living right now? Is fear really the heart of love? This blog took an entirely different turn, but I’ll suffice it to say that life is not easy, nor is it fair, and while some say life is short, it could be the longest thing we’ll ever do, and maybe I want to make mine count.

me and my girls, sreywin, aliza, lydea

October 21, 2007

It’s been, what? Just under 2 months, and I’m already horribly attached to my students. They are my kids, my children, my, my, me, me. I find myself bending over backwards to make Sotha happy. He walks around with pants too big for him, does a jig from side to side, moving his arms, swinging his legs, whenever I put on music (he likes Donavon Frankenreiter and India.Arie). He has a perfect circle for a head, big black eyes, big cheeks, and little sharp teeth. His hair is floppy and disheveled, short on the sides, long on the top. He’s a walking Sanrio Peckle, an unreal, cheerful cartoon. And when he really smiles, it’s with his whole body; it’s monumental. I panic when it goes away. He’s a wonderful student, does his work quietly, thoroughly, and when he finishes early he helps others. But the minute the bell rings he’s absolute chaos (thank God it's not the other way around). He’s passionate and silly and is rapidly becoming the reason I wake up in the morning. I want to spoil these kids, but teach them to be respectful and patient, merciful, and grateful. They’ve never been spoiled, barely had the necessities (if that), never gone to Sea World or a big American zoo, no Disneyland or Legoland, never had someone sit and give them their undivided attention, answer all of their silly questions, or make pointless crafts with them all afternoon. They’re ecstatic if I make them a single paper flower. I need and I want to do this for them. I need and I want to bend over backwards, to accommodate for all of their lackings. I need, I want and I will.

row1(L to R) = (1) trina and phil (2) elephant rides (3) angkor wat
row2(L to R) = (1) crazy monkey! (2) ta prohm (3) enjoying the sun
row3(L to R) = (1) preah khan (2) phil sketching (3)wall carvings

October 14

Pchum Ben holiday is the celebration of dead spirits, and is the second biggest holiday in Cambodia. The Buddhists go to the temple and scatter rice around the entrance steps, and Phnom Penh empties out and all the shops close down, because everyone travels to go see their grandparents. Because of this holiday, we had Wednesday to Friday off from school, and my good friend Phil Gray (From Walla Walla) came to Cambodia to see me (he is teaching in Chiang Mai), so it was a good break from teaching and an ideal time to do a little traveling.

He arrived mid-morning on Tuesday, where I had the majority of my classes still to teach. I arranged to have Sokcha's landlord pick him up from the airport in a Teuk Teuk, and he helped me the rest of the day in my classroom. My students absolutely loved him (like I knew they would). They waved to him, gave him high-fives, pointed at him with mouths wide open, saying repeatedly to me, "Teacher, he is so tall! He is so big!" Thida ran up to me with a corner edge tear of paper - "Fill" was written on it in big letters- She giggled and pulled on my arms, saying "Teacher! Look! I wrote Phil's name on a piece of paper!" After library period, he literally had 4 little boys on his lap at once, reading them stories. They were ecstatic to be in his presence and have his attention.

Thursday morning we took the bus to Siem Reap, a 6 hour trip, bus full of European tourists, Asian bohemists, old field workers, families with screaming children, etc. We arrived there about an hour after sunset, and thanks to my handy Lonely Planet Traveler's Guide to Cambodia (that Phil read on the bus), we went to a restaurant called the Dead Fish Tower (the author's recommendation). It was a multi-level restaurant with wooden ladders, tree-house style and enormous, low tables and big cushions on the floor to sit on, good lighting, a laid-back ambiance, with a huge menu and delicious Thai Soup (Tom Yham, yum!).

The next day we explored the famous temple ruins of Angkor Wat (one of the 7 wonders of the man-made world, along with the pyramids of Egypt, the Great Wall of China, etc...). Early morning we went to the main temple of Angkor Wat, mid-morning took a Teuk Teuk to Angkor Thom, to the temples of Bayon and Bephuon. Early afternoon we went to Ta Prohm (where Tomb Raider was filmed), beautiful and crumbling, the temple walls were cracked and swallowed by enormous tree roots. And last, late in the afternoon, we went to Preah Khan. The temples are ruined and magnificent, fragile and mighty. Enormous statues guard the temples' entrances, and the stony gray walls are intricately carved with religious symbols and battle scenes, wounded by bullet holes and tragic history.

I'm horrible and soft when approached by impoverished, beautiful children with big, sad eyes and dramatic stories. Children tugged at my clothes, "Lady," they say in whiny voices, "Please buy these postcards, so I can go to school. I want to go to school." I hold their hands in mine, "It does not cost any money to go to government school," I say, "Why don't you go to school?" A child selling postcards at Preah Khan looked at me, big eyes wet and solemn, "I want to go to Bible school. I raise money to go to Bible school. It is very nice there." (I teach at a bible school, i'm falling apart) Children wandering the streets ask me to buy them ice cream, and so I take them and let them pick any flavor they want. They just look at me, ask, beg, and my heart breaks. I'm a sucker. Sucker. Ask Phil. A boy asked me to buy powdered milk for his baby brother at the marketplace, I cannot say "no", and I found my money rapidly vanishing, with barely enough for the bus fare home. Curse my over-optimism and trust in all people (i.e. beggars in the street), and my refusal to question or assume anyone's motives as anything but good and pure. The people of Cambodia are wonderful and friendly and annoyingly persistent. I wish I could take them all home with me, clothe them, feed them, give them a place to live and learn and thrive and be.

Phil left this morning and I'm back to my lesson plans and my normal, wonderful, horrible, stressful life. I’m currently at Tea&Coffee with my roommates, pretending to be working. Thank you friends for all of your words of encouragement and prayers.

October 7

Today (and everyday, but especially today), I am excessively romantic; not in an erotic way, but in the way that I ramble aloud, quixotic verses I make up to myself, and whisper in rhythm to the time of my footsteps. Tim and Fay took us to the Russian market today, dubbed this name after it was (and is) continually flooded with European tourists. Heather and Liz bought practical things, clothes they needed to wear for teaching, a new watch to replace a broken one, pirated DVD’s they planned to watch this next week. Yet I, instead wandered the art sections, buying random Christmas presents for my family, a t-shirt for Ryan, a fantastic plaster mask (for Tony), a huge intricately painted ceramic tile (that I dread taking home thinking it might crack down the middle or weight too much) for Alane, not to mention adorable bags and brightly colored fabric, woven baskets with reed dyed in every color, jewelry for Mia and art and clothes for Mom.

Maybe it’s the rain (but it rains everyday?), the green and the gray, or the volatile skies that moves me into my dreamlike state. I am so stressed I could cry, midterm grades are due tomorrow. I ride my bike in the dark, pant-legs soaked with muddy water, my feet and legs ache, calves spotted with so many mosquito bites. Finished reading Liz Gilbert books I started months ago, scared and excited for what the rest of my life could hold. It's just beginning. I’m privileged, talented, capable, strong. I’m naïve and young, unbalanced, immature. I’m so happy to love and be alive. Maybe I will grow. Everyday, I grow.

October 4

Today I coughed so much I almost threw up. My back leaning against the tiled bathroom wall, my heart pounding in my head, I wondered if I could make it through the day or if I should just go home, too tired to face pre-teen middle schoolers with no direction or motivation who could care less about learning math, too tired to have little children ripping my arms out of their sockets, who don't understand a word I say. I let the voices in my head argue a bit, until I decided to walk down the stairs again. And inside the classroom, my children were, with their bright faces and good hearts and michevious plans, their reckless energy their colorful imaginations, and their simplicity and steadfastness of heart. I got through the day, with a smile, with a joy, with small (yet profound) moments of confirmation on why I am here.

Today Chamrong grabbed both of my breasts in the front of the classroom and made a "honking" noise while he did it, probably just, "why are these lumps here on this woman?" Ly Heng had learned that this was unacceptable behavior, and as I pulled Chamrong off of me in front of the class, he pointed and said, "Chamrong is bad boy!" (this was not one of those moments of confirmation on why I am here, ha, but still an awkward somewhat amusing story) My girls hug me so hard it's almost violent. Our group hugs make us nearly slip and fall on the wooden bridges between classrooms. They yell, "Mommy, mommy, mommy!" I yell, "Too many babies, we are going to fall!" And with their little legs and girlish giggles, we nearly do.

October 3

I try mostly to think and tell of the good moments of my days (which happen often, are incredible, I am grateful for), the moments I want to remember, and won't forget. But some days just suck. Suck. Suck. Sorry for my inability to come up with a better word, but my tired still (at 19) teenage body seems to find this word the most articulate for my situation. Physically, I am sick, aching stomach, vomitting, congested, nose dripping everywhere, sore throat, dizzy, feverish, headache, I didn't go to school yesterday, but there is no one else who can teach. I am still sick, but I went to school today, and I feel like I'm in my own little gray haze, walking under my own personal raincloud. My mind is not clear. And it takes tremendous energy to not only entertain and control, but also teach (successfully) all of my students, which even on a good day, with good health, is not guaranteed. Today, I stared out the window and felt my life suddenly go in slow motion, like one of those movies where cheesy music starts to play and everything around you sort of blurs, and you're just left thinking, "this is ridiculous and unreal, and surreal, and awful." I could go into intricate detail on all of my struggles, on this person or that, on the problems I am having with my assistant, on the iniatives I thought I would never be comfortable taking that I've suddenly been forced into, or the annoyances I feel towards the attitudes of my students' parents (like how little concern they seem to have for their child's well-being), or flaws and frustrations in the system, or the concerns (or lack-there-of) of him or her, or the exhaustion I feel from too many commitments, from poor health, from being overworked and still behind, but I'll suffice it to say that I love my job, but sometimes (like today) I wonder if and how I can do it. And I find myself praying desperately, "Lord, please be my strength, I have none left in me, please help me get through the next year, next week, next class period, next 5 minutes..." I would wish to leave you with something wittier, more hopeful, more interesting than my desperation, but all I can end with is a request that you keep me (and liz, heather, kim, ben, and the school CAS) in your prayers.

for mommsies again - sweetie leeee-za leeee-za (aliza)

October 1, 2007

I cannot sleep and I wish I knew why. Obviously and unfortunately, you follow yourself wherever you go. And I realize that the same issues I still needed to sort out with myself at home have followed me all the way to Cambodia. Making the decision to change the situations of my life was probably the first step, and has probably changed parts of me (like my outlook on life) but I find myself still to be the messy, eccentric girl who procrastinates, worries easily, can often be absent minded and irresponsible, and still refuses to learn from her mistake(s) of not keeping her big mouth shut. Oh, what can I do? But cry, and try (harder), and pray!

Today, I was flipping Ly Chard over backwards from the bench to the bed (he lives next door to me), and his body slipped from my weak arms, and he bounced from the mattress to a crack between the next mattress, and his head smacked the cement floor. His eyes got all glassy and his smile faded and he just laid there limp, and I panicked. I laid him in the middle of the mattress, kissing him continually, “Somtoh! Somtoh! Somtoh!” (“sorry” in Khmer) I cried repeatedly, rubbing his hair, kissing his head. “Does it hurt? Does it feel hot? Do you feel a bump? Are you mad? Do you still like me? Should I go get ice?” I asked, and he just stared at the ceiling blankly, saying softly, "yes, yes, i don't know, no, yes, i don't know...". I got him an ice pack, and I held him in my arms, as the ice pack dripped onto his bare skin. He shivered and looked up at me, and I kissed him again, and realized that I love my students like they are my own (flesh and blood).

Aliza is the youngest student in the dorm, 6 years old. Her father visits quite often (every couple of weeks), but I've never met her mother, and certain situations have made me doubt she still has (or ever had) one to care for her. I sometimes think it would be incredibly hard to live away from home at 6 years old, perhaps unhealthy, as dorm students wake up at 5:30am every morning to do chores and have worship, and its very systematic and almost militant (is that the right word? my english is rapidly getting worse...) But the other kids do more than just befriend each other, and while I often see them standing between classrooms bored, playing in the dirty rain puddles (like what do they do trapped on the school campus, all the time?), I see a wonderful dorm family who is warm and accomodating. I think she's okay. Just the other day during break, Aliza crawled up on my lap with her timid, apologetic smile, "Teacher," she said, she pointed to herself and then me, "Mommy!" I joked and tipped her back into my arms and rocked her, sang her a little lullaby and kissed her head, we both laughed. And that friday night she fell asleep in vespers on my arm, and I woke her up and carried her to the dorm after prayer, and she held me close. Again, I love these kids, they need me, and I need them too.

Next weekend is Liz’s birthday, and Phil should now be getting time off, and is going to come visit me (or so he says)! Phil – please come to school with me a day, I want you to meet my children and let them love you. I know they will.

ps. I also have october 10-15 off of school as well....so that time wouldn't be, err, un-ideal either, yo le? (understand?)