love is the province of the brave

2008-06-11T14:58:00.000-07:00

please visit streetfriends.org!

June 11

All good things must come to an end.
You can now visit me at: http://treeena.blogspot.com

So I'm home, and unapologetic for my inelegant ending of a blog.

Life is odd and hard and wonderful. But everything keeps moving, and all that remains are our memories, of people and places and situations that meant a whole lot. I will never forget you all in Cambodia. Thank you. God bless.

2008-05-25T02:50:00.000-07:00

ice cream in bread - feels sorta awkward

May 23

For the last month, I've lived on the top floor of ADRA, with the associate director, named Ann, a quirky brown-eyed Canadian, who was born and raised and still continues to serve in the mission field. She grew up in Budapest, and all around Africa, and when she worked 6 years in Russia as an auditor, she still said she did most of her shopping in Zimbabwe (she actually hasn’t lived much in Canada at all). She works past midnight most weeknights, so I don’t see her much during the work week, but it has been amazing living with her for the last of my time here. She'll tell me stories about taking the ferry to Norway, weekends in Estonia, and being rioted in Bangladesh, crowds of Muslims throwing rocks at her car windows. She made Russian dumplings the other night, and they were delicious. To say I admire her would be an understatement.

My last day in Cambodia, and I deeply inhaled the Phnom Penh smog in my lungs for the last time as I took a motorbike taxi back home from downtown. Home again soon, at last.

2008-05-20T07:28:00.000-07:00

May 22

Eating stolen Weet-Bix straight out of the box, slowly adapting a deep numbness to world chaos. I don't have CNN and have only sketchy resources, but I heard that the death toll in China since the earthquake has reached 30,000, and that because of poor construction, most schools collapsed, causing an unusual high number of deaths in children. Sad. My friends from Myanmar (Burma) wanted to return home to visit in July, but over muffled phone lines, their families told them they better not. They also told them that all of the Adventists were safe, but I met a Burmese ADRA worker last week who had opposite reports.

Had my first real taste of fresh durian today. Had sort of written it off after having bad paste and weird ice cream. Plus the smell and the scary, spiky exterior that literally pops car tires and could do you some serious damage if you fell on one wrong. But my roommate Ann and her friend Mark decided I couldn't go home without having the real stuff. So they bought some for me the other night and we had it with dinner. It was amazing. And when I was eating it I couldn't smell it at all. And it was creamy and smooth like custard and mildly sweet, and I finally understood all the hype.

I talked to a friend the other day, expressing the year's list of beautiful letdowns. And he almost started to laugh, saying he always thought I was a bit idealistic, admirable in a way, a warm and silly foolishness, naivety in the way I always want to assume the best in others. But when the words came out of his mouth, the sense it made only felt relieving. Jesus upset the tables in the temple, Jesus taught us that while we should love the sinner, we should hate the sin. It's okay to feel desperation and rage and disappointment. The world is unjust, messed up, so maddening. But I still have hope. Change is still possible. Maybe that's idealistic of me again, but I still believe I can be a small part of this change.

2008-05-12T03:27:00.001-07:00

May 13

Just got back from an hour of traditional Khmer massage. I found there was a place down the street run by acid victims for $4 an hour. They did some pretty hardcore bone-cracking chiropractor moves and positioned you into some crazy yoga stretches; walked out feeling pretty good. I'm going to be really sore tomorrow.

Rode my bike underneath the trees, deliberately under the ones with low branches, pulling down on the leaves. Walked around Toul Kork a bit. Psa’s certainly awaken multiple senses. The smell of garbage and smoked sausages wafts through the air, smoke stings your eyes, exhaust from motorbikes hot on your legs. The ground is wet and muddy from regular rainfall, and emaciated old men stand shirtless smoking cigarettes, inhaling deeply, further exposing their ribs, saggy nipples, concave chests. Walked by baskets of baguettes, raw fish heads, deep-fried bananas, frogs, snakes on a stick, realized it's all grown pretty mundane.

Sreywin got in a moto accident over the Khmer New Year holiday and she was out of school for a week because she'd been in the hospital. I saw her older sister Soriya at Psa Mnong who told me she'd be out soon and back to school, and as I walked out the entrance, she yelled to my back, "Teacher, she misses you!" She arrived back to school the following morning, kids tugged on my arm informing me of her return, and parted out of the way to reveal her standing in the back of the line, arms folded, eyes and face down at the ground. I walked to her and put my hand beneath her chin, and only then did she show me her face. Her left eye had an enormous abscess of blood collected in the corner, bruises underneath both eyes dipping down past her nose. She looked awful, like one of those kids in the horror movies, little girl swinging on the creaky swing in the yard. She's easily the hardest working and most respected girl in the class, and so it was odd to see her looking so pitiful. She later noticed me avoid looking her in the eye, and called me on it, my insides resonating with guilt. "My sister said I look like a goose," she said and laughed. I would have thought to call her many other things before that, but I kissed her on the head, and whispered in her ear "Nee-uh suh-aht" (You are beautiful). She smiled silently and carried on with her work, because she knew I had meant it.

I cried talking to a friend on the phone about one of my students named Naro, living proof really that the world isn't fair. Proof that karma isn't real, filling me with rage, how unjust and violating it all is, that children exist with such heart, humility, and no opportunities, barely necessities. And others not so far away live in material excess, and don't appreciate it or realize it could be different, and history only repeats itself or grows worse until we die. I don’t think my reception was all that great or if she really heard, because she hardly responded. But it awoke something in me, a reaffirmation, realization, that I care deeply about what I do and whom I encounter in life, and find that a gift. I can’t help but feel blessed by it all, when at the same time it pains me, this unveiling of life's most disconcerting truths. I’m leaving in 2 weeks to go home, truth be told, it’ll be a bittersweet day. But with more honesty, I speak, I am more than ready for it.

2008-05-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

May 7

numinous, and I will follow...
Today was one in which I had wished for the sun to shine a bit more on me, although it didn’t shine much on anyone here in Cambodia. It’s still pouring rain.

Despite my current bitterness, rain is one of my favorite parts of living in Asia. I love warm rain, flooded streets, thunder, lightning, volatile skies. But after being told the address to the wrong airline office by a careless travel agent, I found myself being driven around town by a duplicitous motodope (moped taxi) who kept reassuring me he knew where we were going, when we both knew he had no idea at all. After I ordered the man to drop me off on the side of the road, throwing him a fistful of wet cash, I wandered the streets, and finally arrived upon the office on foot, to argue with the agent, in broken English. When that ended with no success, I returned back to the street, where the rain was violently coming down in such excess, that when the drops fell, they literally stung my skin. I rubbed my arms, checking for welts. My white blouse within seconds became see-through, my undergarments exposed, and once again I was blatantly ogled by old men, drunks, scrutinized by families passing by, small children, the homeless.

I’ve been trying for months to muster up the courage and articulation to truly speak my mind with deep honesty. Things are not going as well as I would have hoped, although I did have months of experiences in which I will forever hold invaluable in my heart. But for a significant stretch of time, within these past 8 months, I’ve sat with my fingers rested on the keyboard, typing pages of disheveled thoughts, to after hold the delete key for several minutes, watching it all slowly disappear, wishing as if life’s problems could vanish in the same way. But alas, life goes on, and I pray most nights with my eyes shut tight, for the Lord to give me strength to do his will, and for clarity on what his will might entail. And so I ask, you friends, that if you care for me, as I do for you, you would pray for me, encourage me, have faith in me, that I might live a life in which I feel fulfilled and happy, in which I am pleasing my own soul and my maker, following the path He has already lain beneath my feet. Can mercy find a way?

2008-04-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

April 27

Yesterday, I met a man named John who works for the Union in Singapore, but was visiting and doing some LE (literature evangelism) work in Phnom Penh. He invited me to go to a place that would: “Change my life,” was his only explanation. As I got into his van, with 100 sacs of food in the trunk, we drove out to the garbage dumps. The air was rank and pungent, everything smelled like rotting feces. Endless fields were covered in garbage, and children came down the hills to greet us, many without shoes or clothes. An entire community lived upon these heaps of trash. They gathered underneath a tin shade, as we handed out bags of rice and noodles. John touched the hand of an old woman, blackened with filth, and the villagers who saw seemed taken aback, shocked that any healthy white man would have such humility as to touch her in a way that was warm or affectionate. Flies rested on people’s faces, and nobody bothered to swat them away. I remained quiet on the ride home, just thinking, “When was the last time any of these people had a proper bath, a proper meal, a proper pair of shoes?” And I realized, I am here to experience moments like these, where I am horrified, humiliated, ashamed, enraged. Where contempt is poured on all of my pride, withering away like broken flowers. “You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.” Matthew 5:3 (The Message)

2008-04-20T00:16:00.000-07:00

at an exhibit of contemporary japanese art - uh, we didn't really get it

April 20

Trina Yeo is ridiculous, crass, and self-indulgent. And because her gluttony is never-ending, she is excited for her birthday coming up in a little over a month, and has lots of things she wants people to buy for her!

She wants, she wants....
click the link for a closer look

1. a fish eye lomographic camera

2. 4-shot action lomo

3. blood:water mission hope t-shirt by jedidiah

4. eco-friendly graphic canvas tote

5. the doodle diary

6. friends with microphones - lifewater benefit cd comp.

7. red pleated trapeze jacket

8. "Fully Empowered" Pablo Neruda

9. your company, your friendship, your prayers, your love

2008-04-17T07:50:00.000-07:00

April 18

Singapore is a nearly flawless city.
It's spotless. It's safe. It's almost surreal.
I've been here already, 2 times before, and every time it astounds me.

I arrived Thursday afternoon, and everyone was at work or school or daycare. Rankin picked me up, we got chicken rice and tea, and then before going back to work, dropped me off at the Singapore Art Museum, which was having a special exhibit on Feng Zhengjie. His quotes painted on the walls:"Things don't cease to exist because they are hidden. When I color human behavior with pretty exteriors, the tension between the underlying and the exterior becomes heightened." I took notes because I liked so many pieces. The art was mainly the work of southeast asians, like Semsar Siahann from Indonesia, Ibrahim Hussein (Malaysia), and Nirmala Dutt Shanmughalingam (also Malay), to name a few of my favorites. After that I walked downtown to a couple of malls, took the subway (which is still immaculate) to Esplanade park, saw the famous durian-shaped Esplanade theater (supposedly as equally posh as the opera houses in Australia), and then wandered aimlessly around the city some more. Uncle Rankin met me for dinner, then we came home, to his fabulous, gigantic house: 3 levels, modern, but not too trendy, clean angles, timeless, really beautiful.

The next day I woke up to my 4 year old cousin Rhys's warm eccentricity (a polite way of saying he yells and sings and runs around a lot, like kids do, very early in the morning), we took him to school, went around Rankin's office at Deloitte, looked after Maddie (who is my other cousin, 16 months, so sweet, but shy), and wandered little India, unkemptly eating Masala Dosai with our bare hands. We picked up Rhys from school, went shopping a bit and then to the American club. I'd go on to explain all of the funny things Rhys says, but will suffice it to: he's warm, inclusive, messy, uninhibited, a total goofball, a kid at his prime. Night rolled around and I went out to dinner with my cousin Simone, whom I haven't seen since she was 6 years old. She is now 13 years old, very active and involved in school, an intellectual already with Singapore's competitive education system, using words like "colloquial" in casual conversation, in her second language, filled with questions and fancy reverie (she acquired from movies) about teenage life in America, saying, "It must be so nice to be 19!", repeating jokes told by her chemistry teacher, talking about being shy and awkward around guys, so she spends her small amount of free time chatting with them via internet "much easier and better" she says with a laugh, making me feel a bit silly and nostalgic.

I've eaten too much in the last day, and week. And after my last meal, my stomach hurts horribly, but I don't regret any of it (the eating, that is). I love Asia. I like that everyone in Singapore says the phrase "Quite Nice" in regards to anything they are mildly impressed by. Things have been nice, quite nice, actually.

2008-04-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

April 14

I'm in Bangkok again! This time for longer, almost an entire week.

This week has pushed me to a new level of gastronomical pleasure. And yes, I am a foodie, although I don't know who came up with such a term, and in my opinion, it sounds vague and generic. Anyways, I thought it'd be fun to play Anthony Bourdain for a day, in search of the perfect meal, and write about all of the great food that I've eaten, just in case you might pop in the city and be clueless of where and what to eat.

1. There's nothing to do in Little Arabia but eat, really, so that's what we did. Shwarma street venders, this is meat at its best. It's like an Arabian grilled burrito. I stood outside by the vender, spellbound by the sweaty little man, carving off meat wrapped and roasting around a giant pole. They then put the meat in flatbread with other vegetables, put a little sauce, and then put it under a press til' it's golden and grilled. Amazing!

2. After what seems like working in countless restaurants over the summer, I've long dreamed of opening my own, a tea and coffee house with international deserts. I've always had a sweet tooth, so all through-out Asia I've been trying deserts like mad, trying to pick and make note of the ones that might have international appeal, and I might serve one day in my hip desert cafe. Phil knows this, so when we passed by a restaurant called T42. We looked at the huge table of deserts, and then at each other, "Is it too early for desert?" he asked. "It's never too early for good desert." We got Austrian coffee cake, which was unthinkably moist, with this light meringue and toasted sugar on top. Then we got a slice of banana date flan, which had just the perfect proportions of each flavor. Both of these deserts I definitely want to be in my cafe some day. I was pretty ecstatic.

3. Shubi Shi is horribly popular in Bangkok, we had to wait about an hour to even get in. It's a Japanese buffet, where each seat has a built in soup cooker, your broth of choice, and then you sit at a bar in front of a conveyer belt of plates with fresh ingredients, meats, greens, wontons, noodles, you name it, and you take your plate of choice off the belt and drop it into your soup. There's also plates of sushi, pot stickers, fried fish and shrimp, and other appetizers. I understand it's hype, and I definitely approve, de-licious!

4. The Thai street-vender meal. A classic. We ate breakfast from a vender across the street from Phil's apartment, whom Phil calls "Towel Lady" because she cooks while wearing a pink towel wrapped around her head. She looked decently old and weathered, but she can sure rock a wok, and efficiently so, bringing me a delicious breakfast of chicken basil stir fry, eggs, and rice. Phil rarely cooks because he says its cheaper for him to eat out, and if he's low on money, there is always a quick fill from a street vender. I'm pretty envious, as this phenomena definitely isn't the same in Cambodia. Pretty dang good.

5. Actually, I'm not going to lie, I've been spoiled by authentic Mexican restaurants my whole life. I'm from California. But after I served a meal last summer when I worked at Tio Alberto's to a man living in Tokyo, Japan, I had become a little skeptical of Mexican food served in Asia. He sighed with deep contentment as I served him his plate of Machaca, saying, "It's nice to have real Mexican food, at last." He went on to explain that he'd ordered a taco in Tokyo, and to his shock and surprise and horror, he received some sort of flat bread with a hot dog cut in half, a little lettuce on top, drenched in ketchup and mustard. I wasn't there, but as a Mexican food buff, hearing the words, I felt an ping of pain, an irk, a violation. "No?!" I asked in disbelief. He just shook his head quietly and then dug into his food. So I was pleasantly surprised to be delighted by my fish tacos at Sunrise Tacos. Not bad, not bad at all, another pat on the back and job well-done for Bangkok.

6. Iraqi food in Little Arabia. I was the only woman in the restaurant, only me and the waitresses, covered head to toe in traditional muslim garments. The restaurant was filled with parties of men, talking loudly, plates loaded with meats and rice. I wasn't sure if I was being irreverent or something by being in there, but as soon as I tasted the food, I could care less, I wasn't leaving til' every bit was finished and in my belly. We ordered beef kababs that were amazingly tender, rice, some sort of green salad, and chapatti-like flat bread. Quality.

2008-04-08T22:19:00.000-07:00

April 8

Mommy-o came to visit for a few days, and it was just what I needed to preserve my sanity, plus it was a lot of fun! I could give a brief summary of every activity and all of our whereabouts, or, as I like to do, create a messy list of highlighted memories.

I loved when mom came to visit and...
1. my students, upon meeting, greeted her with the respectful cultural bow of the head, hands folded together as if in prayer. My mom just grabbed them and hugged them, and they first looked at me with frightened eyes, bodies stiff, and I just laughed. Mom is one crazy lady! But it wasn't any later than second period, they were crawling all over her, giving her stickers and candy, doing everything they could to please her, tugging on my arms, "Teacher, me love mom you!" they shouted, just like I knew they would.
2. we sat on the roof of my house with red brick shingles, the smoky air making mom's eyes water, just catching up, the first time i've spoken my mind with ease and without inhibition in months.
3. we ate Tapas at Friends.
4. we got greasy corn on the cob from street venders by Psa Thmei, and an old lady struggled across the street and up the curb, and when mom put a hand out to help her, she seemed completely appalled that anyone would want to aid and ease her feeble steps. (What kind of person are you mom, really?)
5. we went to Suki Soup at the top of the dome of Sorya, and stared down at the marvelous view of the whole destitute city of Phnom Penh.
6. got massaged by the blind at Seeing Hands. My masseuse Sophea was so sweet!
7. we bought fruit at Toul Thom Poung, and made a fruit salad for potluck.
8. Ben and Kim made us breakfast at their house and we sang songs all morning.
9. we went to the night market by the Tonle Sap.
10. we went to Monument Books and attempted to get work done.
11. we went to a concert put on by the seniors of CAS at the school, where the same four people sang over and over, song after song in the same intensely pitchy voices.
12. ate dinner at Sarika in the middle of the garden, lights hanging from the trees and by the stream at night, fish Amok in banana leaves, banana flame bay that tasted like kerosene.
13. she missed her first flight because I didn't look at the itinerary and neither did she, and we couldn't find the airline office, and we were stressed and late and crazed like we always are and were.
14. everyone kept telling me, "Your mom looks so young, like your sister, and she's so beautiful, even more beautiful than you!" (it's true)
15. I just got to be with her, and I was happy.

2008-04-01T00:15:00.000-07:00

April 1

I realize now that karma doesn't exist. Not that I ever really believed in it, but I’m superstitious, indecisive, irresolute. And I would like it to exist. Things as of late have reached a new and escalated high of horrible. How did things get so messy? I won’t expand.

Aliza, my student, is 6, and the youngest girl in the dorm. Everyday she begs to come home with me, just longing for someone who might look or smell like her parents to hold her during the night. The closest thing to an adult, in which she spends the majority of her time with anyways, I’ve become the default for such a task, and her consistent requests are the opposite of bothersome. She’s wonderful. Yesterday, my mom left in a rush, and I arrived to school late and already overwhelmed. It wasn’t until break time that I sat dazed and disconsolate in the corner of the room, to have Aliza climb up on my lap. It was silent and warm, as the ground began to blur, and Aliza looked at me puzzled, wiping away my tears with her fingertips, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “Teacher, you sleepy, why you cry?” I knew she’d empathize, so I whispered my problems in her ear, in my best broken English. Another student, Malin, noticed and started to laugh as she pointed a finger at me, "Teacher, you cry?" she asked in disbelief. Aliza immediately turned around and scowled, “Buhht Mow-itt Malin (shut your mouth)” she yelled along with another string of angry Khmer phrases I didn’t understand. Malin immediately sat down in her seat, the smile faded from her face, replaced instead by an expression of remorse. Aliza leaned in a little closer, maybe to silently ask if I was alright. Right now it might sound silly, but few things feel as deeply comforting and rewarding as having the love and defense of a child. This morning, she made me a small bouquet of jasmine and purple oleander, the stems tied together with plastic hairties. I have so many reasons why I am still here and I am happy for it. Maybe karma does exist, but life still proves to be a foggy mosaic (just in the way that from up close, it is impossible to see the full picture) with unexpected timing.

I'll write about my mom coming to visit soon. It was really nice.

2008-03-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

March 28

My mom is visiting for the next couple of days, so this morning we went to the Killing Fields, maybe 20 kilometers outside of Phnom Penh, at a place called Choeung Ek. The Killing Fields are the infamous burial grounds from the Khmer Rouge genocide. The ride was distracted with happy conversation, so when I stepped on the soil of the Killing Fields, I wasn't prepared for all of the misery it would embody and inhabit. I've lived in Cambodia for almost 7 months now. Somedays I still feel so far from understanding Khmer culture, but everything about these moments made me realize what my heart has learned.

When we first entered, there was a small building with a high ceiling, glass windows revealing thousands of skulls stacked upon each other in disarray. Few signs were posted around different monuments, grave sites, and trees. It was early morning and quiet, a lady at the foot of the monument gave me a stick of incense to mourn and offer in grievance. At first I felt nothing, I don't know these people. Yet we passed burial grounds, mass graves, suddenly the skulls grew eyes and faces, turned into the faces of my children, of my students, of members of the community I now call home, and I began to shake and cry hysterically. My throat began to feel swollen and tight, and I started gasping for air, as European tourists walked past, snapping photos. Everytime it rains, more bones and clothing are unearthed and unburied from the ground, and everything about my humanity felt deeply violated. How could we do this to one another? How could this happen? There was a beautiful tree at the end of the path, a weathered wooden sign nailed to the base. The sign explained that the bodies of children were beaten against this tree. Later, I saw this area/situation depicted in a painting in a museum, of a man holding an infant by the leg, arm in full swing, ready to bash the body against the trunk until he/she was lifeless. Another tree, called the "Magic Tree" was told to have held a speaker where the KR (Khmer Rouge) would play music as loud as possible, hoping to drown out the moaning of its victims.

Next we went to the Toul Sleng Museum, which once functioned as the prison and interrogating center of the KR. Inside were empty rooms and cells, barbed wire. One room had an old metal cot with tools resting on top, what looked like a garden trowel and an empty plastic gas can. On the wall hung an antique-looking photograph of a man lying naked on this cot, limbs ripped off, body poured over with kerosene and burned, most likely alive.

Before we entered in, a man at the gate put his hat out, begging for money. He wore long sleeves and pants, but his face and neck were visible and had been horribly burned. He looked at me with his one eye, his face and ears completely melted off, missing one arm, he stretched the other towards me with his hat. He looked like one of those comic book villains who lives underground, scheming and seething in the sewage tunnels. I turned my face away so he wouldn't see me cringe. It wasn't at him as much as everything else. The difference is, this isn't a blockbuster summer hit movie, this isn't comic books or superheros. This is real life, and sometimes the pain can seem unbearable.

2008-03-17T21:30:00.000-07:00

it's all business in my kitchen (yeah, i don't know what i'm doing)

March 17

“These people, more or less native to Chile, had this theory, or maybe belief is the better word for it probably, that all people carry all of their relatives with them. Like in their blood, in their heads. Their point was that not only are you of the same blood as those in your bloodline, but you carry all of their memories with you, all of their souls. You carry their dreams and their pains and their anger and everything. Raymond was talking a lot about the bad stuff you carry. Like if your relatives died in some wrong way.”

“Sounds terrifying.”

“No, they made it sound okay. It’s like a density thing. Apparently they wanted that density of soul. Apparently they see the soul the opposite we do, where it’s this light wispy ghost thing. They think of it like a mountain. Like a mountain each of us carried around, and you want your mountain strong and dense, because that means your family has lived lives of great experience. But the trick I guess is to find a way to move around.”

“With your mountain.”
“Yeah. This is where I got a little lost.”

“Well, I guess you can hear from these people, the dead and the people who share your blood, your parents first and everyone else, aunts and uncles, on and on—So the point is, these are the people you’re responsible to. You’re literally carrying them with you at all times. You’re you but you’re also them. You die and become of a chorus, a voice in a chorus. And so when we talk, you and I, we’re speaking on some level with the voices of thousands.

It’s just this illusion we live with, the illusion that we want to forget things. That we need to forget so we can live, because everything is too much, our burdens are so great we need to self-lobotomize, at least partially, chemically, or whatever, right?

But these people want to carry around everything and everyone. They walk with thousands in each step, speaking with thousands with every word. They forget nothing, you know—they recognize the weight of the mountains.”

-You Shall Know Our Velocity! (Dave Eggers)

So it’s a little much and prophetic, but the bold part, this illusion that we need to be free and forgetful: I like this, I empathize with this. It strikes this sort of innate chord, that’s new and unsullied, yet familiar, comforting. Why do we do this? Maybe I’ve experienced things that have been shocking or painful, but I never want to forget them, they minister to my living, they define me. Nothing is too much. Sorry I write about books instead of my real life. I have a really good life.

2008-03-15T02:03:00.000-07:00

March 15

Chard moved away (my student who used to live next door, pictured above), last weekend, after his uncle, Rithy, became so furious at the expulsion of his nephew Som Oun (Chard’s older brother), resulting in his resignation as assistant dean, and his general hatred/resentment towards anyone foreign to Cambodia. I don’t really understand the man, who once used to tell me daily I was beautiful, giving me looks that filled me with a shivering discomfort and slew of misgivings, adding comments like, “I am old, but I still like the young girl.” Last year he taught all of the Bible classes for High School at CAS, and now, I am unsure of his title. Out of his mouth often come disagreeable, peculiar, irreverent comments; and his actions are equally frustrating and discouraging, sucking me dry of compassion. He now refuses to look me in the eye, to even listen to me speak, yet he seems to bleed a generous amount of fan-following charisma, enough to make benevolent Khmer women beg to marry him. I don't understand this. Life is not just. What goes around does not always come around. More often than not, it doesn't (seem to). But this will never change. I wish I understood, or that something could be said, or exist, so that I may.

Yet, it wasn’t more than 3 days later, when Chard, during break time, pulls 5000 reil out of his shirt pocket, “I save the money so I can come visit you. Teacher, I wait after school and go home with you, okay?" He doesn’t buy a snack during break time to pay for the motodope. That afternoon, I had to work late, but Liz took him home to our apartment, I arrived to him sitting in the desk, watching a movie on Liz’s computer, turns around and faces me with a grin as wide as a jack-o-latern. There’s no one sweeter than him. Nobody who loves me quite like my Chard. ♥

2008-03-11T22:50:00.000-07:00

chea dalin's again - engaged! - liz, a first time baby octopus eater

March 12

Last Thursday, my most beautiful girl, Seila, fell face-first into the mud. Naro pushed her a little too hard on the swings, and her light little body flew like a crash course dummy, hit the ground, and skidded just a couple feet. When her body finally came to a halt, a few moments passed when she just laid there limp. I ran over, panicked and bewildered, wracked with guilt. I felt like a horrible teacher, I'm going to be a horrible mother, I was supposed to be watching (and I was! How do you prevent these things? You can't). I never know these things, but to me, she looks Sri Lankan, she speaks Khmer, but she looks different than most, her skin is darker, richer, big black eyes. Her hair is thick and curly instead of flat and straight. I heard a kid once point to her during lunch, "Seila is very black." and in Cambodia where whitening lotion lines the drugstore shelves, that's not a compliment. I think they're crazy. After Sopaul had over-watered the grass after a surprising heavy night of rainfall, she stood up, mud in her nose, twigs in her hair, her clothes filthy with soil. I brought her up to the bathroom, turned on the shower, while the girls all followed, crowded in front of the stall. She stared at me hopelessly, the water ran off her face and body, brown and filthy as it washed down the drain. She started to cough up some mud, while the girls started to giggle as they watched, "Seila takes a bath in the school with all her clothes on?" I shooed them out, changed her out of her old uniform, hung it up on the line, and after she threw on a spare uniform from a dorm student, we returned to the class. "Do you hurt anywhere?" I asked. "No," she said nonchalantly, and grabbed her books. Cambodian girls may look precious, but they're tough. In Cambodia culture, they grow up working a whole lot harder than boys. And at least in my class, they cry a lot less.

In other news, I'm reading a book where the main character states, "Travel is a distraction for the unimaginative." He goes on to say, "Travel is selfish, the money could be used to feed hungry stomachs, yet instead it only feeds hungry eyes." Yet I can't seem to get the bug of wanderlust (n. - a very strong and irresistible impulse to travel) out of my system. Then this character, Will, discovers that his best friend has been killed in a car accident, simultaneously earning a large sum of money in a sort of unusual and whimsical way, and then, in one week, embarks on a disheveled adventure around the world, distributing this money to poor, random strangers he sees fit, putting it in pouches made from folded graph paper, attempting to tape it to donkeys.

Maybe I've just been reading too many back issues of Action Asia magazine, but if I were to go anywhere in SE Asia, for strictly reasons geographical, it would be Sri Lanka. It's know for its white sandy beaches, tropical jungles, and killer surf, but I was reading an article about how 2000 years ago, the son of the Emperor in India convinced the king of Sri Lanka that all the birds and beasts of his land should be protected from human harm and allowed to roam free. According to the magazine, “This imperial persuasion gave birth to the world’s first wildlife sanctuary.” And apparently Sri Lanka has some of the most spectacular, startling, yet seldom-visited national parks in the entire region of Asia. My eyes are hungry, selfish - much more longing to be filled than my stomach (or the desire to fill anyone else's either, i guess, uh, yikes??). To me, this sounds like paradise. Anyone want to come with?

2008-03-05T21:51:00.000-08:00

at chea dalin's engagement party

March 6

Today, like most days, I saw a homeless woman on the street, standing barefoot by a street vender. Her feet were black like charcoal, clad a purple t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, gray black hair voluminous with knots. Her face was weathered, beautiful, poignant, austere, and pursed between her lips were 3 cigarettes, and then another limp between her fingertips, held up against the smoldering tips of the 3 others, attempting to light a 4th. She inhaled deeply, and when our eyes met, I immediately looked away. It’s one of those moments, when, even if you had your camera (unless you were ignorant or insensitive or both), you wouldn’t stop or let it be known you were looking at her long enough to take her picture, or make her known a worthy lamentable spectacle. But you do wish you had the highest pixel SLR in the corners of your eyes, for those obscure, unsettling moments you wish to always unjadingly remember.

CAS just started a 100 day fundraiser to raise money for construction of a new school building and computers, and we’re still in the first week, so we haven’t yet lost our steam. The goal is for each student in the class to raise $1 everyday for 100 days, an implausible goal to single-handedly raise $3000 (because I have 29 students to raise for, and then myself. The school as a whole wants to raise $40,000, which is 10 times the amount the average Cambodian citizen might make in 1 whole year). My helper doesn’t do much but make excuses why she can’t spare a bit of time to help me, and she’s older than me (age is the determinable factor of respect), so in Cambodia, it works every time. The staff seems to think the best and only way to raise money is to sell food (and it’s valid, Khmer’s love food). But it’s hard to sell food to poor people and receive much profit, and my 6-year-old kids are great at demanding I go home to my tiny kitchen and bake the rest of my life away. Today I made Norwegian coffee cake and popcorn. Yesterday I made peanut butter cookies and muffins. I sell most of it for either 7.5¢ (300 reil) or 12.5¢ (500 reil). Go me, the new pseudo-domestic Trina (who could potentially increase your risk of diabetes). The school has become a frenzied marketplace. It’s a competition between classes. It’s exciting, exhausting, and much more stressful. My kids love it, though. I’m tired. It takes hours to buy and prepare, on top of all my other work which occupies enough time as it is. I’d like to think that the school appreciates my efforts, but all it really needs, and wants, is my money, which I’m not bringing in much of.

Other than that, I’ve been trying to scrimp on a budget I’ve continually proven inept in keeping. Been occupying my small amount of free time with old pirated Malloy produced surf films, McSweeney’s literature, and all 3 seasons of Arrested Development. Mom is coming in 3 weeks. I can’t wait. Can’t wait. Can’t wait.

2008-03-01T21:56:00.000-08:00

March 2

go HERE to view my photos
Normally, I try my best to fit in, blend in, become invisible (when I go out to town, it never works). I avoid talking much to street people, with conditioned fear as a foreigner that I’ll receive my best attack of swindle; not from everybody, but most likely, at least, from someone. I tell the motodope in a quiet voice, “turn right, turn left, stop here (baht s-dam, baht chveng, choop ah-nee).” Hoping he won’t notice that I speak Khmer horribly with an American accent (if they know you’re American and you say you don’t have money, they call you a “liar”, the thing with me is that I don’t look like your stereotypical American, at least not when my mouth is closed, or so i've been told) I try to buy green beans in the open market, instead of asking for ¼ of a kilo (which failed miserably a previous time), I pick up a handful and dump it on the scale, grab a potato or two, maybe a carrot or tomato and ask in a quick and mumbling voice “Banh Manh ah-nie (how much for these here?)” hoping their reply is slow and over-articulated so I can catch the price and translate it in my head without her noticing my incomprehension of the language, “Manh?” (how much?), “Prohm pi roy" (5 prohm + 2 pi = 7 prohm pi, khmer only counts in intervals of 5, roy = 100, 700 reil is only 17½ ¢ US). Anyways, before this I always felt too guilty or intimidated to take pictures of the locals and their daily lives. I’d be a horrible photojournalist. Why do you want to take a picture of this stranger? Is it because they are bizarre, shocking, ugly, and/or pitiable? Is it because you haven’t seen it before and you don’t belong here? I don’t care for alienating people. And maybe it would be better and easier if I weren’t trying to go about a normal life here. But Liz and I decided that it would be a shame if we went all the way home without a picture to show of horrible, whimsical Cambodian life, of the street food, and poverty, Buddhism, beggars. So we put all of our fears and excuses aside and went to the Mekong riverside, and took some pictures. I actually got shooed away and shut down many a times, treated 100% like an obnoxious tourist (which there aren't many of, and Cambodians are not very polite) “get away from my food unless you are going to buy it, give me more money, this is not enough”. I got past the awkward requests to stick my camera is a stranger's face. My first attempts at photography in quite awhile, I’m glad to have captured them. I posted a couple I liked on flickr. Click the link above to view them, I hope you take a look and enjoy a few, or comment and let me know what you think of dear old corrupted Cambodia.

2008-02-23T03:24:00.000-08:00

February 23

This last Thursday was a Buddhist holiday called Mahka Bucha, and since our school is seemingly 90% Buddhist and government affiliated, we got the day off. I went with Heather to Monument Books, and after that to Toul Thom Poung with Liz, so she could buy some new clothes. I've have been low on cash ever since my trip to Thailand, so I stayed outside to kill some time and avoid the temptation of extra spending. I had skipped lunch, so I got some noodles from a street vender, when a beggar approached me, like they always do. He put his hat out in front of me, "som mah-roy" (could you spare 100 reil?) he said. I slipped a bill in his hat and he thanked me and left. The problem with street venders is that their isn't a place to sit, and the problem with Toul Thom Poung, is that on all sides of the street are obnoxious abrasive men, hoping to sell you something, take you on their moto, or strike up an intrusive conversation. I open the bag, standing up, eating quickly with my chopsticks when the beggar approaches me again, speaking in Khmer. I told him I didn't speak Khmer, so he started to speak in English. "When I see you eat like this, on the road, I think you're like me, Khmer. I live on the streets, I sleep outside. Why not eat inside with the rest of the foreigners? They have a nice table for you there, you can pay after you eat." His english was perfect. "Yeah, but I have no money," I say. "Why have you come to Cambodia, hoping to find work?" "I work already, I teach English." "Did you come here all alone? Why are you alone?" he asks. "I close my tray of noodles. "No, I am waiting for a friend, I think I have to meet her now..." I lie and walk away.

Not that I don't love teaching English, or feel that my work here is not gratifying and useful, but something about this conversation strikes painful epiphanies. This man speaks perfect English, yet what has it done for him? He still sleeps on the streets. I was talking earlier to my brother, about if I would return as a missionary after I finished school and what I would do, and I told him I'd like to do more along the lines of work that ADRA does, or maybe something medical. I don't favor the mystery of not seeing the immediate benefits of my service abroad. Many of my kids might grow up and stay in Cambodia, where there is no tourism or need to speak English. Anne was telling me about the work they do for ADRA. They go out to all the provinces and teach the women about proper healthcare, cleanliness, how to properly care for their infants, then instruct the women to teach others and keep paying the knowledge forward. Those women are hired, thus creating jobs for the locals, fulfilling an immediate need. And so I asked myself, why am I bending over backwards, at my best still poorly educating children on irrelevant topics (like nursery rhymes and the ABCs), when so many other areas scream need and desperation, in the form of disease and death, hunger, violence. Am I really benefitting this country, these children by teaching them English? I am planting a seed, sure, creating somewhat of a possiblity or an opportunity for the future, maybe. But what if it makes little or no difference? Does it?

2008-02-17T00:33:00.000-08:00

February 17

The weeks seem to get shorter, go faster, but I’m beat. My exhaustion seems to lapse and relapse into the subsequent weeks. I get sick a lot. I often feel I'm just barely scraping by. My work never ceases and I still manage to feel behind. My workload (with class size and absence of help) is actually unlawful to take on in the states, and it’s really starting to take its toll. I’m homesick. Lonely. I miss youthful communicative normalcy. I miss my family and friends. I miss English-speaking people.

I’ve been reading Ecclesiastes, in search of truth, freedom, balance, contentment; been really discovering what is both futile and vital in my life. When I figure things out, I’ll let you know. And while this wisdom may never transpire, I’m learning it’s okay. Maybe there is no right answer. Nothing is sound. Nothing is right side right.

2008-02-10T22:04:00.000-08:00

February 11

unwarranted knowledge
Random fact: prolonged constipation can lead to, no matter your physical size or frame, a big arse, colossal sized poo-poo. You might ask yourself why I feel the need to pass on this information, yet if you walked a day in my shoes, you’d see that this is all too mundanely the contents of my life. After Lasa moved away, Chamrong filled the shoes, as the smallest kid in the class. He has little round cheeks and a squeaky voice, and skinny little frog legs that look so cute and sprightly as he jumps rope.

Anyways, this morning he laid his head down the desk, eyes blurring warmly with tears, “Teacher,” he said, barely looking up at me, “Call mother, go to home me.” We started for upstairs to the office, and he could barely stand up straight. “My stomach,” he said. He stopped midway, bending at the waist, his face and lips got white as if he were in deep concentration. I picked him up and then felt his bottom, warm and mushy. I quickly put him down, alarmed, “Rong, did you poop?” He nodded weakly and waddled to the bathroom, squatting, holding his stomach. I led him inside, and as he started to unbutton his pants, the most gigantic poop, from any size man, fell out his pant leg. It lay in a clump on the floor, and for a moment, I stared in disbelief at the size of this thing, that it was physically possible it could have come out of a child so small. It was greenish brown, and if it had been randomly placed in an open space with no clues of its origins, I’d assume it came from some sort of large wild animal, a horse, cow, maybe an elephant.

I instructed him to take off his shoes, then socks, then pants, then shorts underneath, and then he bent over, stark naked from the waist down and shivering, as I showered him down with the hose. “More coming,” Rong said, as it started to drip down his legs and onto the floor once again. I brought him to the stall, and Faye came in from the library to help me. She got a roll of toilet paper and attempted to pick this poop off the floor. It was too big to go down the hole, so she started hacking at it with a toilet brush, explaining that he must’ve been constipated for an extended amount of time until he burst, and how she was worried this might clog and break the whole CAS plumming system. I rinsed out his shorts, rung them out, put them back on him, and his mom just dropped him some new pants and he returned to class. So these grotesque situations probably don’t need to be retold or recollected, but they do remind me, I’m more ready than I ever planned to be for motherhood. Not just because of the poop thing, but you know? I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.

2008-02-09T00:27:00.000-08:00

February 9

you hear that, bangkok?
A moment of honesty: I love Asia. I love that I’m Asian. Everyone in Bangkok is beautiful: the wealthy rotund teen at Siam Paragon in the Chloe dress and leather flats, the school girl in white and navy, clad the tiniest blue pleated mini skirt and stilettos, the Australian business man on the Sky Train. Even the young lower middle class street people wear skinny jeans with unique washes and avant-garde graphic tees. It’s a milder, more chic and placid Tokyo, a magical, au courant, stunning metropolis. And I’m here. I’m here.

Thursday, we wake up late, grab coffee from a street vender, and take the Sky Train to Lumphini Park, where gigantic is still an understatement. It has green trees and grass, a full playground, and a giant man-made lake in the center. It is infamous for its lively mornings, full of Tai Chi doers and street venders selling everything from food to snake blood. But we arrive about noon, and it’s quiet then, only filled with families or couples sitting underneath the shade of the trees. We rent a little yellow pedal boat, and Liz steers us directly under the spray of the fountain, we laugh and scream, as the park employees irately watch from the shore.

We continue to wander the city, bask in its miscellany. Liz hates the city, she’s from Montana, and says they overwhelm her. But I’m in love, entranced, enthralled, ecstatic. We get lost in search of a Wat in Ekkamai, watch a little bit of Chinese New Year celebration parades, and go see an exhibit in the Thailand Center of Design and Creativity. Jeane (our SM director at WWU) is here for a convention, so we give her a call and meet her for dinner at the Ambassador Hotel. Jose Rojas joins us, and we just recently watched this DVD series he preached at the mission, everyone loves him there, and we’re minorly star-struck. We catch up with Jeane, reminisce about WWC, talk of other SM calls, culture shocks, taboos. And then we catch a movie at the Emporium, a great movie, (American Gangster), but I’m so exhausted, I fall asleep in the middle.

Friday, Phil came back from Chiang Mai around 5 am, and as always, it was nice to spend time with him. We decided to take the midnight bus and travel all throughout the night instead so we wouldn't have to pay for a place to stay overnight (yes, broke backpackers are we). So instead we went with Jeane, Phil, and the group on a boat tour (which WWU payed for, we're such moochers) ate at the food court at MBK, and spent the afternoon chilling at Benjasuri Park. Thailand is beautiful, the people are friendly, less pushy, more helpful. Getting ready to leave, I’m almost sad to return to my destination, devoid technology, cleanliness, wealth, and luxury. Yes folks, I live in a 3rd world country, (Cambodia is not like Thailand). But then I remembered why I’m here, why I do what I do, what fulfills me, whom I serve, and why I wake up every morning. I love my life. I love it. And I’m truly blessed by the opportunities and experiences I am able to have. I can't wait to get back to my kids. But a vacation every now and then feels great.

2008-02-06T09:05:00.000-08:00

February 6

sawatdee kaa from thailand
Spontaneity has its moments of backfire, yet for me, planning seems to have, more often, this effect: so after we had a somewhat chaotic trek to Thailand, due to persistent crooked lying salesman, obscure source references, ignorance, and a funny yet fickle roommate whom I have to nag continually to commit to anything, we ended up in a city I’d never even heard of, and lovely it was. The boat that was supposed to take us all the way to Ko Chang, was double the amount in price we were told it was going to be by our Phnom Penh sources, and only dropped us at the border, Koh Kong. After we stepped off the boat, where we had ridden on the roof with live chickens and produce, fallen asleep, gotten sunburnt, green about the gills, we found that at the border it was even more expensive to take a small van to our actual desired destination than the ridiculous boat ride, way over the amount we had planned to spend. Suckered again. Sick of traveling, disoriented and lost in translation, I received an e-mail from my friend Phil in Bangkok saying he had to leave to get his visa stamped the same day we were planning to arrive, the appointment forcibly moved up a couple days. He had to go 10 hours north to Chiang Mai. We didn't want to be so far from Bangkok, so spur of the moment we bought tickets to a beach city just 2 hours outside of the capital called Pattaya. The lady asked us where we would like to be dropped off, and we had no clue. She named all of these parts of town and we just sort of looked at each other blankly, until a man who had spend the last 3 years living in Pattaya referred us to the backpacking district, Soi Buahkoa. He had quite a temper and after he picked a fight with the equally ornery driver with a glass eye, he got kicked out of the bus, leaving us with a eccentric late 20s horndog backpacker from London. After the driver demanded an extra 50 baht to bring us to a guesthouse on top of the excruciating 800 baht we had already painfully shelled out, the 3 of us found ourselves at the corner of the street in the middle of downtown, confused and dizzy in the midst of Thai’s wild and blurry night life. We finally took a taxi to a decent guesthouse, and fell asleep in front of the TV, flipping between pipemasters and rap videos.

The next day we perused the city, got breakfast, ate fresh fruit on the beach, got lost in the mall, had our first starbucks in over 5 months (Cambodia doesn't have it), and instead of going out to the bars or clubs or discos at night like normal youngfolk, the boring mellow us (Liz and I) bought chicken and rice from a street vender and watched a movie and were perfectly content. The beach wasn't amazing, unlike the more secluded beaches in southern Thailand, nonetheless we were fried from falling asleep on top of the boat the day prior, and I was just stoked to be in a developed city with great food, and wonderfully friendly people. (ps. to the potential asia traveler, the people are much nicer in Thailand than Cambodia) We took the bus to Bangkok this morning, and meandered through the gigantic malls, upset because we had no money to buy anything at all when we wanted everything. Phil brought us to the bookstore, Kinokuniya, which was enormous, it had the biggest arts and graphic section i've ever seen, which is the current trend (according to Phil) in Thailand. It was full of so many mind-blowing art books, I was so happy I could've cried. This thriving metropolis is a torrent of creativity, inspiring just to walk its streets. Now I'm here, just picking up somebody else's wireless, looking forward to all the chaos and adventure tomorrow could hold.

2008-02-03T04:49:00.000-08:00

February 3

Mankind is like dogs, not gods. As long as you don't get mad, they'll bite you. But stay mad, and you'll never be bitten. Dogs don't respect humility and sorrow. [jack kerouac]

I'll admit to one frustration: life is Cambodia is often disconcerting. In this world, I believe hope is real, relevant, and attainable, but the more that I see of it, the more I realize my own diminution; and the more I've come to realize, accept, and understand its perverse survival mechanisms. I've been here 5 months, and everyday I encounter deception and swindle, from the motodope to the waffle vender, a man to his neighbor. Everyday we falter, everyday I ask for certainty, and everyday I am saddened by man's broken and entropic state.

Buechner says, "God calls us to the place where our deep laughter and the world's deep hunger meet." How do we get there? How do we achieve balance? How do we emerge pragmatism, optimism, sorrow, hope?

2008-02-01T00:10:00.000-08:00

February 1

For those of you who ever watch Project Runway, Udom reminds me of Austin Scarlett. The boy daydreams on a whole new level, and I sometimes look at him, doodling on the back of his assignment papers, longing for him to drag me, if only for a few moments, into his wild imagination. This was evident, the first week of school, when I asked them to draw their homes for Social Studies class. Udom drew a 3-story mansion, with a full playground and a giraffe in the front yard. Judging from his lunches containing only a small scoop of fried rice in a styrofoam take-out-tray, I have my doubts that his housing situation was accurately depicted.

Sometimes, I look at my kids, think of their possible futures, and the cynic (or realist) inside of me, ties my stomach and heart into horrendous knots. I know that sounds inauspicious. They have so much potential. If anyone believes that to be true, it’s me. But I have this ill-fated voice (screwtape) inside of me that makes me believe history could only too easily repeat itself. Chard’s father, Ly, says he believes Chard (at 7 years old) to be the hope of the family. His older brother Soum On just got kicked out of the dorm for shoving a huge metal table at the dean who is 6 months pregnant, who asked him to simply please take his jewelry off. And as she shielded her stomach away in fear of the health and wellbeing of her unborn child, he proceeded to swear at her. They can't afford a place outside the dorm, so he’s going back to live in the province with his mother. Rithy (his uncle) was upset for days, saying, “Living in the province, what do you think his future will hold?” Apparently, education is poor in Cambodia, especially schooling provided by the government, and especially in the provinces and away from the city, where even with an education, it doesn't guarantee a job or any stability. I cannot be naïve enough to try and believe it’ll be promising for everyone here that I love, maybe I’ll just have to stay forever, or at least til’ they’re all grown up, enough to make sure and fight for the future of these children. My children. As horrible as they sometimes may behave, I don’t think I could love them any less.

2008-01-30T21:59:00.000-08:00

January 31

wanderlust
I sit cross-legged on the 3rd floor of the Cambodia ADRA building, holding a globe I dust off with my fingertips, conversing with a Sri-Lankan refugee named Sathees about travel in SE Asia. He knows everything from government, visas, religion and taboos, to fees, fares, sights, and transportation, and speaking of Sri-Lanka, I just read in Action Asia magazine, that the Southwest, is one of the best surf spots in Asia, and from the pictures it looks hypnotically beautiful (plus Sri-Lanka is currently in need of your business!). Anyways, he advises me to take the bus to Kampoung Soung, then take a boat to Ko Chang, Thailand where their is supposed to be some great reef and dive spots, where we can stay in a Bungalow for cheap, and then take the bus a couple of days later to Bangkok, where Phil has promised me the perfect Shwarma.

I've had a nearly perfect week, and I have no idea why it's been so wonderful. My kids are the same as ever. Silim has been helping me all week because half the staff has been away in the countryside. I love her. A dog bit me on my way to school today, attacked me in the knee, scraggly hair that was bare in patches, sharp teeth, ripped my favorite pair of black slacks. Don't laugh (although it may be funny). Prior to my relocation to Asia, I didn't get rabies injections, though it was doctorally suggested. They were too expensive, and while it didn't bleed too much, we called a doctor, the wife of church member, and she said if it broke beneath the surface, I should be put on antibiotics. Bleh.

The newest news is that i'm officially going to Europe. 3 weeks in September, with 3 of my closest friends. The plan is to hit 8 countries on the most frugal of budgets, and I feel ecstatic and so privileged. I'm off to bake a birthday cake for Thyreach, this cake bribed my students into behaving all week, and if this year I don't make them smarter, it's guaranteed I'll make them fatter.

2008-01-30T02:04:00.000-08:00

January 30

nostalgia
It's the middle of the night, and once again, I can't sleep. It is months past the rainy season but tonight it rains, and pours, and thunders. The streets are flooded, and I go out on the balcony, hands in the pockets of my brandless track jacket; standing alone in the darkness. There are dim lights on top of the gate guarding the house next door, which reflect in the mucky puddles on the street. The continual beating of the rain creates movement in the water, causing the light to dance across its surface like a kaleidoscope. And something so ugly and foul, like the streets of Phnom Penh, become strangely and enchantingly beautiful. I am restless and discontent and everything sort of feels surreal. I am displeased at such solitude; there is no one to share this with. I read a poem in English my junior year of high school, I don't remember the title or the author, but just that it was about a man who felt his bones detach from one another and float haphazardly in his body, and this is how I feel: out of place and sorts. The whole country is slumbering, and everyone I care about feels hopelessly distant.

2008-01-23T02:03:00.000-08:00

January 23

I've been sick, behind in work, and feeling a little burnt out lately. Just taking it one day at a time. Each day no longer holds surprise, and the monotony of it all brings comfort. I was finally clearing the bulletin board of pictures the kids drew for Christmas, and I found a picture Chard drew of him and I around the Christmas tree. We both sort of looked like middle-age men, in stick-figure form, but I knew whom it was of, because he drew arrows and labeled our names. I smiled inside. I want to go to Psar Thmei and buy Naro a new pair of shoes. He wears a pair of imitation Pumas that are 5 sizes too big for him, but they’re all he’s got. Someone gave them to his older brother, who gave them to him, and he’s sort of cute and funny, as he shuffles around in (on him are) gigantic clown shoes, the sound of them scuffing the floor a whimsical prewarning he's about to enter the room. His father is the night guard and his mother sells cakes in the marketplace, but its not enough to pay the school bills and the rent for their 7 children, and send them much to eat for lunch. His once white shirt is brown, he always smells endearingly unbathed, and the button on his pants has been broken for weeks. He’ll tie them with reeds or string he’s found on the floor, but sometimes his junk’ll fall out all over the place when he’s jump roping in PE. So he needs new shoes and a new school uniform, and it’s less than $10 to buy him all of these new things, so I plan to.

I also plan to go to Thailand in about a week and half. Liz, and I. Maybe around 8 days of it, half spent in Bangkok and the other in whatever island or coast that sounds most appealing at the moment. I’ve read into several cafes, discos, cinemas, music clubs, aquariums, night markets, zoos, and other such fun. It’ll be a nice change of pace. I can't wait.

2008-01-19T17:54:00.000-08:00

January 20

twenty reasons to live in cambodia
1. it's sincerely debatable that anywhere else in the world has food so cheap and produce so fresh
2. a flood of pirated movies, music, tv, computer software, sweatshop-made clothes by Western culture's top brands are snuck out of the shops and sold for a 1/10 of the price they are in the states, it's all blurry shady corrupted beauty
3. the prevalence and utility of bamboo, the practacality of wicker, the city's biggest buildings painted yellow
4. everything's busy and out in the open, congested with fruit and meat stands, market-goers, bustling with life and color, almost devoid tourism; it's a risky, smelly stroll down the street
5. the never-ending sun
6. public transporation, on the back of a stranger's motorbike, so close you're bumping legs with the commuter next to you, the wind blowing through your hair
7. gigantic woven baskets balanced on the top of women's heads, filled with bread or fish as they walk down the street, wild chickens tied and bunched together with rope, strapped to the back of a motorbike, straining their necks to turn and look your direction
8. wild mean monkeys in the park with the worst of reputations, elephants in the park at Wat Phnom, giant lizards and frogs on the staircase up to our apartment, the common nonchalant presence of all these
9. street food venders that make you sick, waffles at Psa Mnong that always taste sweet and soft and cooked with sand, over-styled clothes, side of the road tailors, sweetened soy milk
10. Asia's seriously great and trendy packaging design, even the gas brands (only I would love or care about this), green tea juice boxes that you buy just because they look rad
11. Jars of clay coffee shop, Rajana, and other NGO charities and businesses that empower the poor and just produce beautiful things
12. Khmer fruit shakes, Thai hot soups
13. Psar Toul Thom Poung, and the markets I could visit everyday, with vintage jewelry, great clothes, leather sandals, stacks and stacks of silk and pashminas, Buddhist carved statues, and so many beautiful things
14. a way too big bag of greens and fresh vegetables for significantly less than 1$ US
15. the simplicity and pace of life
16. plumeria trees grow far and wide, and their flowers fall and litter the sides of the freeway
17. internet overseas calls (airfone) to home are amazingly cheap
18. warm rain, cool nights and cool mornings
19. strong coffee with condensed milk
20. monks on the streets clad orange wraps, with matching orange bags and umbrellas

2008-01-12T03:39:00.000-08:00

[1] on the Mekong [2] Bayon temple [3] starface Ker San Sotha
[4] Wat Phnom elephant [5] coconuts sale [6] from top of Sorya
[7] fruit stand [8] motodopes [9] grilled octopus on a stick

January 12

the difference between here and there
Here is an (often overlooked) question in any foreign culture: what behavior is safe and appropriate? I’m not talking about religion, dress, or even taboos, but more about things you do or don’t regarding safety. For example, women and children in Cambodia don’t go out past dark, especially not alone. And why is this? As a 19 year old American (from a small beach town) with reoccurring good luck and security, I had comfortable delusions that I was invincible. But if anywhere and anything will shake you to fear and paranoia, it’s living alone and naïve, and female, in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A couple of weeks ago, I was running late to a couple of errands, so late in fact, it was after dark on a Saturday night. I wanted to quickly check an e-mail I was supposed to receive from my father. I had just gotten back from a NGO woman’s club Christmas program at the Intercontinental Hotel and was wearing my best black dress. I rode my bike through the quiet unlit streets of my neighborhood, my green purse slung over the left handlebar. The shop by Anrok Davy that I usually go was closed, so I rode farther into Toul Kork (but still within a few blocks of home) and arrived upon the first shop with the light on. Outside middle age men sat shirtless with their cigarettes, slouched and smirking, shady and horny. They blew smoke in my direction, raising their eyebrows, as I ran into the shop, only filled with more men. It then hit me, the incongruous way I fit into this culture. I threw a couple hundred riel at the man at the desk and ran out. The streets were deserted and dark and ominous. I was just one turn from home, less than 100 yards from the gate of the mission, and the sound of a moto revved behind me. Its lights were dim, but I could hear it coming, and like a scared fool, I peddled as fast as my legs could carry me. The man slowed down to where I was, he did not want my money, it was all to easy to grab my purse, but instead he reached right past that, putting his right hand below the black satin ribbon on the waist of my dress, grabbing me between my legs. I continued peddling, aiming my wheels to the right, in attempts to break free from his grasp. I then hit the dust and the dirt where the pavement ended. The roads in Cambodia are cracked and unfinished and dusty, filled with trash, shattered glass bottles, rocks, and bricks, and it was there, that I fell. The moto fortunately sped off in the dark, the only thing I could see was the back of his shirt blowing in the wind, and I, petrified, got right back up on my bike, and sped home. I slipped past the guard, blood dripping down my legs, rocks imbedded in my kneecaps. I ran into the bathroom, knowing my roommate would only reprimand me (and sure enough, she called me stupid, several times, including many euphemisms expressing only the same redundant idea), cuts on my arms, legs, and even in my armpits. I slipped off my dress and took a shower, until my other (nicer) roommate Liz helped me clean the wounds, rubbed antiseptic on them and helped me bandage them up. Unlike America, scars and cuts don’t prove your tough, instead they’re something ugly and meant to be hidden. And after being told numerous times that I was no longer beautiful, I wore my longest skirts day after day, in best attempts to hide the damage.

2008-01-06T00:23:00.000-08:00

Monivong Blvd, Phnom Penh

If you wanted to send me the perfect package:
p.o. box 488
phnom penh, cambodia

it would contain:
1. a mix cd
2. lemon pepper
3. almonds
4. a moleskin journal
5. a new book you read and loved
6. granola bars
7. anything that smells like grapefruit
8. an arts/culture magazine
9. a sock monkey
10. a handmade card with a very long note

goodbye Lasa

January 6

The first thing we do every morning before classes begin, is line up at the flag and sing the Cambodian National Anthem. The students line up in 2 lines, one for boys, one for girls, according to size and age. When I first came to CAS, the first thing I saw, in the front of my line of boys, was my little Lasa. I whispered to Liz, this first day, as I ran my fingers through this boy's hair, "I know I shouldn't pick favorites, but this is it." His hair is brown, not black, due to malnutrition, his parents were rumored to be very poor, he is 7 years old, although he doesn't look like he can be a day older than 4 years old. He's has sweet black eyes, and a squeaky little voice, just like a baby. He was my baby. When school began, I had the hardest time getting him to say anything at all, he sat quietly in his seat, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his open palms, he wrote in his notebook quietly, and rarely even smiled. His grades were less than adequate, he wrote so slowly, I tried my hardest to keep him caught up with the class, but the more time went on, the more he fell behind. But the more the year went on, the more I fell in love with this boy, he warmed up to me, played games, made jokes. After Christmas break, I brought my students all back a book and a stuffed animal, and the one I picked out for him now lies indolent on my desk. I was informed that his parents couldn't afford to send him to school here anymore, and so, this boy, so quiet and young and small, is going to move to Siem Reap and live in the dorm at an orphanage school. Please keep him your prayers. He'll be missed.

2007-11-28T22:23:00.000-08:00

crazy little Philine

November 29

The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me
Some mornings I wake up, hopelessly lost in attempts of making sense of my life. Lately, life's been a moto ride on an unpaved road, shards of glass and broken bricks hit the wheels unexpectedly, and I'm, as Neruda puts it, a once free foot, in which reality "condemned to live in a shoe, feeling out life like a blind man". So my life really isn't so hardcore, but it is exciting enough and more for me. Here are couple of anecdotes from my weekly experiences.

one
I recieved a new student this last week, one I was told over the last 3 1/2 months, was coming and not coming just about every other week. She arrived in a lacy white dress, ruffles on her sleeves, her eyes big and black and full of mischief. She is Indian, and her father lied to Sharon, saying she was 6 years old, because that is the youngest age you are allowed to be to be permitted to enter the first grade. She then told me, in class that she was 5, and then to Kim, she said she was 4. She is tiny and undisciplined, not deliberately disobedient but obviously unfamiliar with the way school children behave and line up and quit running inbetween the classrooms long after the bell has rung. Her father told me that she only spoke English, which really, translated to, she didn't speak Khmer. At first, when Kim asked her, how old she was, she said, "I'm fine, thank you." (the exact robotic response I get from my Khmer children, who definitely are not yet fluent in English). Kim lived in India for 5 years and spoke to her in Indian and told me that she seemed to understand much clearer in Indian than in English. I brought her into the classroom and did small tests to try and measure her knowledge and experience. She told me she had studied the alphabet, but didn't know the sounds, doesn't know her numbers yet, and when I gave her a paper of vocab words with pictures (merely to review as a class activity) she scribbled all over it and then ripped it in half. It took me a whole period to get her to write sentences, in which she refused to just copy and I had to read her letter by letter. Aliza did her math for her, and by 4th period, she came to saying, "I went caca in the panties..." Her voice was quiet and her words mumbled, and after she repeated it a second time, I caught a whiff of the "caca", and it didn't smell good, took her upstairs to the bathroom, and did my best to repair the damage. We rinsed her underwear in the sink and she continued to go more in the toilet, her legs spread in the air. She would not stop screaming unless I held her dress up and insisted she could not wipe herself. And we returned to the classroom in her satin dress with wet panties, which fortunately hadn't browned from her accident, whispering softly in her ear, "Are you feeling better sweetie?" I don't think she's ready for first grade, but we'll see, I feel as of late, its only too common to find myself in situations that at first feel impossibly unrealistic, and just somehow (by God's grace, care, and sustenance) find a way to make it work.

two
Parent teacher conferences were this last week for first quarter, and a parent came into my room to meet about the progress of her son Chamrong. She is aged widow with many sons, ranging from mid-twenties to 7 years old, tired from her responsibilities, loneliness, and the walk of life. I told her the truth of Rong's behavior, that he keeps quiet, nods that he understands the lesson, is quick to turn in his homework, says he doesn't need help, and then turns in his work completely wrong, at least 50% of the time (which is the on the way to failing 1st grade), and a lot of times I don't have the time to catch it until after class has finished (30 students can be a handful). In my room, she is shocked and discouraged and starts to cry hysterically, her words slurring as she gasps for air, speaking loudly in Khmer, making a language I can already barely understand in the clearest of voices completely undiscernable. I sit there quietly, uncomfortable and confused, "Somtoh!" (sorry), I repeat, "Rong has many good qualities, he's always respectful, always quiet and well-behaved, gets along well with others, I'm sure there is a solution...." She leaves in tears, asking repeatedly that I work on her boy, that I make sure he understands, that I insist he let me help him, and I comply without much confidence. Today she brought me lunch in my classroom, saying she thinks I should stay in Cambodia at least until Chamrong is grown-up, "My oldest son, you can marry," she says, "Do you want a Cambodian husband? He's tall actually, fair-skinned, like a Chinese, do you like that?"

2007-11-22T01:32:00.001-08:00

November 22

So the mystery of my missing wallet was not that I was careless or pick-pocketed by a strange hoodlum in the marketplace, rather, a student came into my room during break (an older student, presumably), searched through all of the zipper pockets of my backpack, stole my wallet, emptied it all of the cash, and then returned it 5 days later (which really isn't all that shocking, as Liz once caught a 7th grader go through all of my drawers and search my gradebook for his younger brother's grades, yet the lock on my desk is broken and I am required to keep my room unlocked and all of the windows open during all school hours). Not only does it break my heart, that I probably face this student each day in friendly conversation and its all a farce, but its also horribly inconvenient because the day before I quickly grabbed my wallet from purse and put it in the front zipper pocket of my backpack, I had exchanged a $100 bill at lucky market, bought about $10 worth of groceries, and didn't think to take the change out of my wallet, which was the rest of that months paycheck, so, will suffice it to say, I'm completely broke -- that was exactly half of my paycheck ($90, I get $180 per month), also my credit cards were cancelled 2 days prior to the return of it, so even having those back is completely useless. I was talking to the dean parent Janice, and she said that working in the dorm this year has been tremendously difficult, because the children are very deceptive and secretive, and that even small children can lie on queue and not blink an eye, mostly to cover for the older kids. I’d just rather live in the happy daydreams of my head, where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, and everybody is morally sound, and always perfectly trustworthy. I hate when reality forces you to be cynical. Forces you to realize that some people are just horribly misguided, and have been their entire lives, and its hard to say if they will ever recover from it (a downward spiral), it just perplexes me on how these people can exist and live with themselves, and I hate feeling so guarded and cynical. Yet I’d be stupid if I didn’t adapt to being this way. I’m never bringing more than $5 to school ever again.

ps. Happy Thanksgiving.... that's today, right? I almost forgot.

2007-11-18T00:26:00.000-08:00

my sweet sweet little Sotha boy

November 19

Mid-way through Math (2nd period), I realized the once novelty of my SE Asian life has turned wonderfully and horribly mundane and ordinary. Redundant even, as I wake up the same time every morning, in the same crowded apartment, walk or ride the same dirt, dusty roads to school every morning, to arrive upon the same classroom, the same children. I read old journals and realized months ago, only just arriving, being so nervous for my first day, staring my children in the face for the first time, them only being mere strangers, only having their names (clueless to even how to pronounce them) printed on a piece of paper. And now I'm here, with them crawling on my lap, kissing my cheeks, pulling on my clothes, demanding every bit of my attention, and I know their faces, their names, the way they smile and laugh, their friends, their likes, their dislikes, before I walk in the door I know who will struggle with this lesson and excel in the other. Some days, its incredibly frustrating, for this to be my reality, and other days, I'm overwhelmed with a love that I'd never find in college in America. Teaching 30 kids in every subject, in a language they can't understand, I've learned to speak broken English, to speak as simple as I can, that prepositions or gerunds and all the "buts" and "fors" are superfluous. I've learned to go into town on my lonesome to run an errand, perusing a dirty, crowded, dangerous city where nobody understands me. To speak enough Khmer to tell a motorbike taxi where to go or how to buy fruit or eggs or rice in the marketplace and understand the prices. And as I rode into town, clutching grocery bags in both arms, my legs dangling off the side of a motorbike, behind a complete stranger who probably hadn't bathed in days and didn't speak a word of English, I realized, that this is okay, its good, its home. This is home.

ps. My wallet is gone, along with my drivers license, ATM and credit card, and all of the money from my last paycheck. I'm brilliant. I insist on carrying my wallet around everywhere with me, with a credit card with thousands of dollars on it, which I haven't used since I've been here, ATM I've only used once to replace a broken apple computer charger, in a city infamous for theives and petty crimes, in the open marketplace where I know I won't be spending more than $10. So these things happen, and its nobodys fault but my own. Just learn and live on. Yeah, it sucks (i'm really sorry dad).

2007-11-10T04:04:00.000-08:00

Mr. Setha and Panhasith getting down to Decemberists

November 10

Aaron Weiss wrote this in a blog, probably years ago. It's simple, honest, I like it. It's called:

6 things
may I tell you a few unfortunate realizations?

I love my beliefs more than truth,
I care more about my "ideals" than I do my neighbor.
I care more about "I" than every "you" put together

but do you know what?

God is love
God is so forgiving
Jesus came for the sick

-----------------------------

I am happy I am here. I am here for a reason.
I've never had so much love in my heart.

2007-11-08T05:19:00.000-08:00

November 8

8th grade math, as of today, I am teaching no more. And I honestly have never felt so relieved. What's ironic is the students that made life the hardest were the ones who objected most to letting me go. And I've come to the conclusion, that anywhere in the world, middle school students are generally the same: lazy, apathetic, insecure, and overall misdirected. I can't deny that I passed through those stages in my adolescence, or that my friends and I didn't act stupid just to blend into what we thought was normalcy. Even though this particular class ranged from ages 14 to 23 (education is a little different in Cambodia, and those ages were more evenly dispersed than you'd think), they all act seemed to act just about the same. But it didn't help that Cambodia cultures a society that determines age (over actions or attitude) as the measure of respect (and growing old is not a bad thing, a perk, I guess), and with my personality (putting me at a disadvantage in this situation, and not that I'm trying to justify my shortcomings as inherited personality traits), it was incredibly hard, and almost impossible, to motivate them, to cure them of their laziness, to stop them from cheating in every requested effort, and to get them to take me seriously. Don't get me wrong, they can be fun, a few of the students did actually expend tremenous effort in their work, and many grew to be my friends, but overall, with my grips on the class, I found my nose barely above the water, realizing, in the nights of losing sleep, my hair, and youth, that really, at 19 I shouldn't be spending 50% of my time worrying about the 1 class I teach in 8th grade, and the other half about the 5 others I teach to the 1st grade. The Bible says, you can't plant a tree one day and expect to see fruit the next. Growth and fruit that means something, that is real and deepy rooted, takes much of your lifetime to develop, and honestly, I just don't think I had the strength or ability or experience in me. And so, I went to Sharon (principal of CAS), and told her, that, being a volunteer, I was trying my best in vain to teach both age groups for the first time of my life (because really, both motivating and disciplining the two are worlds apart) and it wasn't going well, and she was wonderfully understanding, saying, "I can't believe you didn't come to me sooner....", which was a pleasant surprise. So after a night of no sleep, and continual prayer, a voice in my head (God, thank God!) gave me the epiphany, that one small adjustment for the rest of my year (so instead I am teaching 1st grade one more class at this time), was what I needed, not only to make things smoother and more enjoyable, but bearable.

Nonetheless, it couldn't have come at a worse time. Monday, they had their chapter 3 test, and Tuesday I handed it back out to show them their scores, where they give it back to me for me to destroy. One student, whom I know struggles, and has adapted the easiest solution, cheating, told me he couldn't find his test, that one moment he had it on his desk, he got up to do something, and the next it was nowhere to be found. After a quick search, I left the room, and next period told Sharon that I hadn't collected his test because we couldn't find it. She was pretty upset, as she believes 90% of Cambodians cheat (direct quote), and said that the only reason we couldn't find the test was because he was keeping it, or that somebody else had taken it to keep to give to a friend to cheat. The 8th graders were punished and couldn't eat lunch until the last 10 minutes of lunch period, and Sharon, had told them, "I was a new teacher, and I didn't know what to do in such a situation, so they needed to be extra careful..." which in turn, made me look irresponsible and unprofessional, even though I had asked this student 3 seperate times for his test back, and was not like the time, she had previously told me about, where the teacher forgot to pick up the test, but easily retrieved a few days later after one simple ask. Anyways, that same day, they found out I was not going to be their teacher next quarter, and students came up to me, "Why is teacher Sharon taking you away from us? Because you lost that one test...?" In all honesty, those few seconds, I wanted to leave it at that, and say I never told them so, but they assumed the reason at that, not because it was beyond my ability to spend both the day with 30 seven year old children and then a class with hormonal pre-teens, 5 days a week, and that they had won, or that I didn't like them and thought my life an improvement without them in it. And while Phalkun cried a bit, and other students said they wished I would stay, which made me feel better, overall change seems to be for the best. I'm not doing less, just changing it up, and I think I'm much better suited teaching elementary anyways. But I guess we'll have to wait til' next week to know for sure.

2007-11-04T06:48:00.000-08:00

the wonderful, horrible infamous Veasna

November 4

Today, I wandered the streets searching for the fastest way to get to Tuol Kork market, and of course, I went the slowest and worst way possible, walking in circles for miles on end. My legs aching, I waited several seconds on a sheet of cracked plexi glass, trashed on the dusty road. Just thinking to myself, the only place I really want to go is up. Maybe the sheet will turn into a rocket or a magic carpet or a hover craft, and I can be just like Michael J. Fox, and blast on to the future, where I can look fondly back at the valuable year I spent in Cambodia, where I touched so many lives, and helped so many children break free from the chains of illiteracy. Not. And after those few moments of laziness and apathy (where you want the work to be done, but you just don't feel like being the one doing it) had passed, I bought toilet paper and some lemon juice, and spent the next half an hour, ruled by my horrible sense of direction, wandering roads that all looked to the same to me. I did buy Zenya from a street vender, and spoke only Khmer, buhn man? oh, pi poon prom? Nonethless, I was proud of myself, I am making progress. I am learning to take it one day at a time. I am learning it is okay to admit your limitations, to ask for help. When I returned to my apartment, Sengphor arrived minutes later, inviting me over to eat some duck curry they had made. Community is nice.

I am running out of ideas to do with my student Veasna. I took him to the office the other day, and carried him the whole way, out of the classroom, through the hallway, up the stairs, waiting out his horrible tantrum, tears literally wet on my arms, legs kicking, arms flailing, I was scared we might break through a wall in the third grade classroom, as they are horribly weak and thin. Sharon told me to keep a log book of all of the things he does in class, which if I had made a list in the past, would have included things such as: stealing from other students (money, school supplies), hitting, speaking bad words, attempting to choke others, using the middle finger, not to mention I can't keep him in his seat, he's always running around the room, and none of the other kids want to sit by him (and when I move his desk and start to move him by them, they say, literally, "No teacher, no, please, no Veasna!" and who knows all of the things he says that I can't even understand (another disfortunate factor in the language barrier). On Friday, he picked up the plastic stick from the dustpan, which is pretty thick and probably about 3 ft tall and started hitting girls with it like a baseball bat. And yet, the other day, he hugged me from behind, as he usually does, and I kiss him on the head most days (where his hair always smells like old meat) and Thida laughed and said aloud, "Veasna loves teacher!" And it was the highlight of my day. Maybe I can find a way to get through to him. I love my kids, I'd bend over backwards for any of them. And right now, I am laughing, out loud even, because I am lost, I am out of ideas, out of my mind.

2007-11-01T04:25:00.000-07:00

November 1

everybody knows that life can be wonderful
47 reasons to be ecstatic (that i live in cambodia)

1. walking to school on quiet mornings
2. my wonderful, imaginative, good-spirited students
3. how my girls kiss me on a daily basis, and say, "teacher, me you kiss you one more!"
4. moto rides in the city, the wind blowing through my hair
5. mean, michevious monkeys in the park at wat phnom
6. psar toul thom poung (the russian market, packed with cheap clothes, pointless aesthetically-pleasing trinkets, rad art, etc.)
7. my kids dancing to black eyed peas "where is the love", or anytime any music is played
8. sweet chili sauce on everything!
9. fruit stands in the marketplace
10. mango smoothies at morning cafe
11. tom yum gai soup
12. our preferred teuk teuk driver whom we just call "jolly man", yes, he’s jolly
13. 7:00 worship at Rithy's, every night
14. my neighbors from Laos, 6 guys, close to my age (between 17-22), funny, inclusive, ridiculous, here in SE Asia, they’re some of my closest friends (they have all graduated from high school, but are students at CAS, doing a 2 year program, just focusing on learning English, enough to get into the adventist english college in Thailand)
15. the over-chlorinated (or something funky) swimming pool at the plaza hotel
16. elephants! they exist, and are around to see
17. that baguettes are the national bread of cambodia (and those baguette sandwich street venders)
18. rice, rice, rice
19. thai ice coffee (with condensed milk)
20. jump-roping with my kids
21. art class
22. those sneak attack hugs from behind (which I get from every student, all times of the day)
23. eggplant
24. Jars of Clay coffee shop
25. Occheuteal beach
26. cheap massages
27. the dead fish tower at Siem Reap
28. the fact that when I'm alone (without my Caucasian roomates), most locals speak to me in only Khmer; so the fact that I blend in alright, and am not stared at nearly as much as my roommates, or at all (and on a side note, they are not discreet at all and are devoid all tact)
29. Zenya (green tea and pomegranite, pronounced San-ja)
30. scarves, scarves, they're everywhere and cheap and sold in bright colors in beautiful fabric (I can’t help but wear them, even in this weather, yes)
31. pirated dvds (in every marketplace, where I can even find indie movies and tv show seasons for super cheap)
32. saturday night movie nights with my neighbors (Lao guys), they like comedies, action, and their favorite of all, romantic (serious), once they even looked at all of Ben and Kim’s wedding photos and sat around talking about how much they want to get married
33. Benjamin and Kim (some of the hardest-working and compassionate people I’ve ever known, not to mention talented, in seemingly effortless ways, i.e. music, cooking, communication)
34. eating out with Liz
35. Rambutan, asian pears, the good fruit over here
36. my reader/helper (from 8th grade) Rassmey
37. visiting churches in the provinces, that are basically houses on stilts, the church is a room with bamboo mats on the floor (i am still trying to get used to sitting indian style for hours on end without my legs falling asleep)
38. the fact that I almost run into cows on my bike, and I live in the city (why? I don’t care, such situations are so ridiculous, they turn whimsical, magical, odd yet endearing)
39. the gelato stand just outside of lucky market
40. the art gallery upstairs in “The Warehouse” in Siem Reap
41. the over the top (often horribly and wonderful creative) décor of the asian
42. lucky bakery (or any bakery over here)
43. exposing my children/students to (what I feel is) quality, creative music (the pompous pseudo-hipster speaks) with good response (sure 7 year olds would be fine with the radio clichés, but they do and are acknowledging that the good stuff, is, indeed, good)
44. the monumental smile of Ker San Sotha, he smiles with his whole body, (and I’m not just stealing from my favorite quote from High Fidelity), his eyes crinkle, his body bends, the kid dances to his own drum, he might just change the world
45. doing homework with Ly Chard after school, and just the fact, that, I know, the little guy just loves to be with me
46. imagining the possibilities for the lives of my kids
47. attempting to work, and getting free wireless, at tea&coffee cafe, tuol kork

2007-10-30T05:04:00.000-07:00

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!”

2007-10-24T02:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-20T22:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-14T01:17:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-10-07T07:01:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-04T04:01:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-01T02:09:00.000-07:00

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?)

2007-09-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

For mommsies -- Ly Chard and Trina

September 23

Culture shock. Southeast Asia isn’t anything new to me. I have family in Philippines who do everything from farm mangoes all day to serving as guards or doctors, and an Uncle who is a businessman in Singapore. And I’ve visited them for a couple weeks here and there in the summer, so I’ve seen it, both the poor and the developed. I’ve seen the traffic, the trash, naked children in the streets, but I’m still American, and little things shock me in our different qualities of life. Little things I didn’t realize ever occurred until I’m not just visiting anymore, I’m living it.

For example, my student Visal was squatting down during flag dismissal, and he had a very large hole in the crotch of his pants. He’s 7 years old, not a baby anymore, and without wearing underwear, his squished penis spilled out of the hole, clearly exposed to everyone. The school I work at requires a uniform of red slacks, a white button up shirt, and a tie. I gasped at what would be perceived as public indecency in the U.S., and tugged the arm of a translator/assistant, “Yamin!” I yelled, “Look at Visal’s pants, please tell him he needs to get new pants.” Yamin barely blinked and looked away. I wanted Visal to stand up, at least not stay in the same position with it exposed, but Visal kept squatting, and I said again to Yamin, like he hadn’t heard me the first time, “Yamin! Tell him. Look!” Yamin looked at me, “He knows,” he said nonchalantly. And then it hit me, that it’s no big deal. That it happens and it’s sad and nobody cares. And Visal kept squatting with his penis hanging out, and that was that.

Another thing is that my favorite little boy Lasa has lighter hair than skin because of vitamin deficiency, and he’s about half the size of the other boys, because his family is very poor. And I tried talking to my student Veasna’s parents, because he picks fights with other kids, hits them, makes them cry, steals their money and school supplies, and the vice principal Sopheck told me that they tried talking to his parents last year and his parents told him they didn’t have the time to discipline him, and so it just didn’t matter. I know this happens in the U.S., but it’s even more common and the effects more profound here. And the saddest thing to me is he takes my arms sometimes and wraps them around him, and I kissed him on the head today and he leaned in close, because he just wants to be touched and loved, but even me, I have 29 other kids, I don’t have the time either. And maybe the damage done already is impossible to recover from.

------------------------
(and now, more about my individual students)

Chhoun – always looks like he’s frowning, but Silim just says its because he has big tongue. He’s sort of a misfit kid who is bright but unmotivated. I struggle with what tactics I should use to get through to him. One period I couldn’t get him to do anything, and he just laid his face in his desk, until he looked up with blood pouring out of his nose, and I still see drops of it stained on the steps up to the bathroom, please pray for this kid

Sotha – has the sweetest smile imaginable, and always wears pants that never stay on and is constantly pulling them up. He’s really a beautiful boy with an infectious laugh, and is one of my favorites because he exudes a positive spirit and amazes me with how obedient and respectful he is. Unfortunately, his English is very poor.

Naro – if there is one kid I see tremendous potential in and wish I could spend the extra time pushing him to learn, it would be Naro. He’s a natural at most all things, but he’s just a kid, still learning. He amazes me with his positivity, his hard work, and his respect and responsibility, I pray for him because I can already tell he could do great things if he just had the opportunities, help, and support

2007-09-19T04:00:00.000-07:00

Lasa showing me the verb "smile" in English class

September 19

I was thinking today how I would describe each one of my children (and to new readers, I teach 30 Cambodian kids in the 1st grade), to say, my parents or friends far away, so if I talked about them later and mentioned their names in casual conversation, you would have an idea what they were like.

Ly Chard – is probably the boy I feel closest to. He lives next door to me actually, and I see him across the street on the balcony, where he yells: “Teacher Trina, I am spiderman, watch me!” (as he attempts dangerous things like climbing on the railing of the balcony from the second story, and I yell at him to “be careful”, which of course he doesn’t understand) and I have worship with him and his housemates (4 teachers, several Laos students, Rithy, and others) most every night. He has this wonderful positive curious spirit about him, and he always has the biggest smile on his face, with his mouth wide open. It's children like him that make me want to adopt a child from Cambodia some day (like Angelina Jolie. ha), and I grab him and kiss him (and i'm not sure if i'm supposed/allowed to do that to my students, but I do anyways) at least 10 times a day, because his smile is just so sweet.

Lasa – he’s a small boy, he looks about 4 years old, but he’s probably 6 or 7, and from the moment he lined up for morning flag raising (he’s 1st in line, they line up by size), I whispered to Liz “I know I shouldn’t pick favorites, but he’s it”, he’s absolutely adorable, he has the funniest biggest grin, as wide as a jack-o-lantern, small sharp teeth like a lynx, and the sweetest, darkest, warm, round eyes.

Aliza – first year student, her English is close to the poorest in the class, but she’s just beautiful in this unconventional way, her smile is sort of nervous and apologetic, but she has a very sweet nature about her, and a generous spirit, and I sense creativity and copious amounts of potential in her

Veasna – oh man, he’s a handful, and more than that, he’s completely uncivilized, and out of control. The way he moves, runs, crawls, even eats looks savage, and he has a wild intense look in his eyes, like something you’d expect to see in National Geographic. I find myself losing my voice over calling his name, chasing him around campus, and yet sometimes he grabs my arms and wraps them around him, and I wonder what is family and background could possibly be like, because he’s unpredictable, wonderful, and horrible

2007-09-15T17:19:00.000-07:00

Chettra, Naro, Seila, Thida, Visal, Lasa, and Ly Chard. so silly!

September 16

Friday is a short day, half day, gets out at 11:40am, so when the end of the school day comes around on Thursday, it’s always a relief. The last period of the day is art class, and I borrowed some CD’s from Rithy, wanting something peaceful and calming in the background that my children could color too. One CD he gave me was called “Slow Dance Songs”, kind of cheesy, but better than anything else in my selection, so I popped it in the last period of the day. The results were hilarious and heartfelt, for a couple of minutes, until the always (or at least with my kids) disastrous events kick in only moments later. That’s what I get for trying to work with 6 year olds. They’re energy inspires me, for a couple of minutes, and then the reality hits me that I’m not 6 years old anymore, not an authoritarian or disciplinarian either, and at the end of the day I feel so worn out I’ll think I might collapse and break through a flimsy bamboo wall of my classroom. The main problem with me is that I believe children should be free to let their imaginations run wild, and that they should laugh, and dance, be messy, and curious. Yet in this case, with only me in charge of all 30 of them, discipline is what should be in order instead.

Anyways, back to “Slow Dance Songs”, my children start bobbing their heads, dancing in their seats, Visal and Naro come up front to hand in their worksheets and dance down the isles, while Ly Heng and Panhasith, mid-work, get up from their desks, grab each other, and together march down the isles like a slow tango (and then it turned bad, when Ly Heng had maybe heard this type of music in a romantic movie, and starts grabbing Panhasith’s face and attempting to kiss him on the lips, and I still laugh remembering Panhasith’s panicked face as he tried pulling away). Kids run up to give me their assignment and stay by the CD player, adjusting the volumes, and we all just start to dance. Ly Chard grabs my waist and we start to make a line around the room, until the boys suddenly push each other over, and make a dogpile at the front of the room, laughing hysterically. The ones behind and in front see and hear them, and run over to where they arm, plopping their tiny (and some big) bodies onto one another, screaming and shouting, and that’s when the CD gets shut off, I’m grabbing little boy bodies and pulling them off one another, and yelling, and sighing deeply and staring at the clock. Oh dear. But it’s silly moments like this, that lets me come home and smile and remember, the smiles on their faces, as they danced down the isles for those few minutes.

2007-09-13T03:39:00.000-07:00

a group of well-loved (by me) trouble makers in my class!
Thyreach, Chamrong, Naro, Visal, and Kim Hok

September 13

If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You'll get his help, and he won't be condsecended to when you for it. Ask boldly, believing, without a second thought. People who "worry their prayers" are like wind-whipped waves. Don't think you're going to get anything from the Master that way, adrift at sea, keeping all your options open.
James 1:5 (The Message) Thanks Darse.

Lord! I need your help! I'm praying and I know you'll provide!

Yesterday I walked home alone in the pouring rain. The next few months is the rainy season in Cambodia, and it usually rains from about 4 to 5pm everyday. Rains. Pours. It's absolutely beautiful. The water in the flooded streets went up to about my mid-calf. And I just made up little melodies and sang to myself. A chance to feel cold, refreshed, tired, pensive, alive, renewed, a chance for growth and realization. A few moments to think for myself, and to hear my own thoughts for once.

I went to the internet shop a couple of days ago, only to see Kham Pai using the phone across the way. He's an older student (like in his early 20s) here studying at CAS from Laos, trying to learn enough English to go to the Adventist College in Bangkok, Thailand next year. "Miss," he called from the back. I smile at him and walk out, only to have him chase me down the street a couple minutes later. "How are you feeling, teacher?" He says, smiling. "I'm okay." "Do you miss home?" "Yes, in ways". I say, "but I am happy, I like it." We look at trash, plastic bags and old food trays, littering the streets. "It's prettier in Laos," he says, "You should see it. I like the mountains there. Here, there are no mountains, and the streets are dirty." I look at the streets here, polluted and dusty. Children play in the mucky puddles in the potholes of the roads. At Psa Mna, I wait for a friend at the internet shop, only to see a little girl play with a makeshift broom and dust pan, sweeping up old bottles and shards of glass (dangerous too) as a form of a game and toy. I see two little boys dig through a pile of old dirt with broken plastic shovels, beaming and laughing like they're on the best beach in Hawaii. This has a profound effect on me. The state of these people. Their attitudes and situations. And you just learn to turn the other cheek, and realize that this is so beyond your control or influence, and you're just a wandering light in a country where you don't belong, trying to make a difference, one school, one class, one child at a time. It could either melt your heart, burden it so, harden it, or make it shrivel and dry up.

2007-09-11T02:48:00.000-07:00

(L to R - Lasa, Visal, Naro) 3 of my sweet, silly students during break

september 11

I’ve been informed: that Liz and I are the first SM’s (student missionary volunteers) to have ever taught (or attempted) elementary school or been homeroom teachers (teach all the subjects to one grade). Most volunteers in the past have taught only Middle or High School English, maybe Math (and it does make a tremendous difference, the amount of English the student knows/understands/speaks already). And I’m finding clarity, on why I feel like the staff here have no answers to many of my desperate questions. The lower grades have never been taught by all English speakers, and the teachers from the previous year, have left to study English (so I’m thinking that probably all the subjects were not taught in English like they are now). I wish at times (most times, maybe all. ha), that this was not the case, and that I was not the guinea pig for such a task. Just wish I had some outside ideas (from previous experimentation), on how to be as productive as possible, or at least make it by.

Today, a student in the back of the classroom starts to vomit a horrendous amount on the top of his desk. His eyes fill with tears and he just sits there and continues to throw up, the pile of vomit accumulating to a giant heap that starts to drip off the sides of the desk. The kids around jump up, plug or fan their nose, imitate the gagging sounds, or start laughing. The student finally finishes (or so it seems), goes upstairs to wash up in the bathroom, as I bring the desk outside of the room. He returns and sits in his single chair, only to throw up again about 10 minutes later, all over the floor. Needless to say, it was not my favorite moment of the day.

I also, was telling a friend, before I left, that it was going to be nice to have a year without any relationship issues or even prospects. Not that I have any, but I want to talk to you Jess (yes you, de oro). I got issues. Ha. Please don’t read much into this statement. Though it is probably what you think. Ha.

2007-09-07T02:35:00.000-07:00

september 7

A student named Veasna in my class is an absolute disaster, he runs around the classroom unless you hold his arm, you put him in the corner and he tears apart the walls, you put his face on the board and he keeps turning around, you ask him to do an assignment and he screams, "No teacher, no!" He's michevious, barbaric, bright, and full of potentional. If only I knew of a way to hone his energy for good, for the sake of his future and my own sanity.

Yesterday, the students crowded around something he kept hidden in his hand, and he came up to my face, "Teacher!" he yelled, as he pushed a giant spider in my face, its body alone as big as the palm of his hand. I screamed out of reflex. The students laughed and screamed and danced, and Ly Chard starts to sing and dance and do what looks like psuedo-break dance moves on the floor, "Teacher, watch me! Spider man, Spider man! Does whatever a spider can!", he sings (that is about the extent of his English). Then Veasna goes over to Silim, an old teacher and translator, "Teacher Silim!" he yells as he thrusts the spider in her face. She screams as well, just as loud or louder than I. Soon after he is chasing every student around the room with this gigantic spider in his hand, its legs thick and hairy. They scream and run, climb on the desks.

I grab his arm, "give me the spider!", I command, he drops it in my hand, and I throw it out the window. He jumps out of the window, picks it up again, and hides it in his hands. I chase him, grab his body, command him, "give me the spider Veasna!", he drops it in my hand, and I run out the door, run to the flagpole, and smash it with a rock. Unfortunately, this riled up my class for the rest of the period. What am I going to do with him?

ps. I don't like spiders.

2007-09-06T03:20:00.000-07:00

september 6

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage for the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
-St. Augustine

First week of school, and it has, literally, been the hardest and most exhausting week of my life.

I have been assigned to teach the 1st grade, on my lonesome, I teach 31 children (it is a law in California, that a first grade class cannot have more than 20 kids with one teacher), who, along with their parents, don't speak any English. We are given English books for every subject, and are told that we cannot speak any Khmer in school. We are an all-English, international school. How will they learn? These kids are 6 years old, they do not know English, I do not know Khmer, and I am expected to teach them all, all 31 little bodies, who inhabit as much or more (less disciplined) youthful energy as any kid their age.

I had 2 days to set up my classroom, (cleaning and decorating) and do all of my lesson plans. Yes, I wrote them, but after the second day of school, when I finally recieved workbooks and textbooks (and I still haven't recieved my English books), I had to change them, and I have been, day by day.

I try to plan games, and they don't understand the instructions. Their textbooks come photocopied from American schools, for children whose first language is English. They run wild, and I scream til' I lose my voice. I feel mean, hopeless, and unprofessional. I am asking God, I need courage to change the things I can -- I need to accept the things I cannot -- I need wisdom to know when I can and cannot. And can I? That is the question. Can this be done? Are these expectations realistic?

I need a miracle.

Sharon, the principal here, is strict and straightforward, blunt, organized, hardworking, and sort of manipulative. I see her say things to Cambodian teachers just to get a reaction out of them. She teaches my Reading class, because I'm filling in and teaching 8th grade Math. The second day of school, she sees me in the library. "Your students don't know how to spell their names." She says sternly, "They need to know how to spell their names. They should have known this already. Some didn't even know what their last names are. Why don't they know?" She says this accusingly to me, like I am responsible for all of their knowledge from the one day I previously spent teaching them. I don't know if they've learned anything new this whole week from me. It's all been review. Sharon says she hopes they'll get so frustrated they'll just learn English. But how long will that take? And what will my class be like til' they do. Hopeless chaos. That's what I feel.

A man at the gate of the mission, sat on his motorcycle and waved to me. "Hello teacher," he said, "You teach my daughter, Aliza," he says, with a heavy Khmer accent, "in the first grade. Please help her. Please pray for her. I live and work very far away. 200 miles away (so she lives in the dorm, at 6 years old! yikes!), and I work so much to be able to help her learn. Please help her. Please pray for her," he repeated again, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

And as he drove away on his motorcycle, I started to cry. Can I help these children? All of them. I want to help them all. I see potential in them. I love each of them already. I know their names and their faces. They have a wonderful spirit about them, they're curious and mischevious and imaginative and alive. I see them laugh, play, fight, sing at the top of their lungs, dance in the isles of desks, climb out the windows, and break all the rules. They're beautiful and horrible, irreverent, excited, reckless, fearless, fun. They're children, and I intend to do the best I can, all year. But I just feel like my best is not enough. Is it enough?

I've been sick all week. I barely eat, and I throw up everything I eat anyways. Diarrhea. Feverish and shivering in the night time. I don't tell anyone of my conditions. Only my roomates know. But I am too busy, I keep working.

2007-09-01T18:10:00.000-07:00

September 2

I tried durian for the first time today. It’s a fruit infamous for its bad smell, as it smells, in the words of my mom, like “poo poo”. The outer peel is spiky and beige, and is shaped like a giant lumpy cancerous tumor, and inside is brownish orange and sticky. But it’s a delicacy in Asia, it has a peculiar potent flavor and creamy texture. But as JC says it, “You need to eat it about 3 times to like it.” I need at least a couple more times. It’s definitely unlike anything I’ve had before.

Yesterday was the second Sabbath here at the Cambodia Adventist mission. It’s been exactly 1 week and 2 days since we’ve arrived (we arrived on a Friday). Khmer church starts at 10:00am, and we attend as a symbol of respect, fellowship, and community with our neighbor Cambodians, even though we do not understand a word of it. The building is hot and crowded, and we start to feel sleepy and lost in translation. Inside, it is simple, yet beautiful, congested with sweaty bodies and smiling faces. People of all ages attend, families with children, elderly, filled with a warmth beyond the hot and humid temperatures. But it’s when they start to sing that I really lose it. Each voice is soft and sweet as it melds into melody, and I start to feel tingly, and the ground begins to blur, as my eyes well up and begin to tear, not from sadness, but movement from beauty.

Here in Cambodia, the average lifespan is not very long. It might be from poverty, malnutrition, recent genocide, or violent crimes in the city streets. But I was talking to Pros (pronounced Pr-oss, a fellow teacher at CAS), as he leaned up against my classroom windows (made from bamboo, along with my walls), “I am 28 years old, almost 30, I’ve lived about half of my life.” “Half of your life?” I asked him, “You plan to live only til’ you are 60 years old.” “Yes,” he said, laughing, “I am planning to die.” “You will live longer than 60,” I say, as I dust off my chairs and cabinets. “No, maybe I will live til’ I am 50.” “You will live, I think,” I say, “til you are 100 years old.” “No,” he says, shrugging, “I am planning to die.”

2007-08-31T02:39:00.000-07:00

august 31

Rithy gave me a ride home from school (pronounced sa-la in khmer) on his motorcycle, and I felt just like the asian version of Che Guevara (Ernesto) in motorcycle diaries, the wind in my hair, the territory up ahead yet to be explored. There are cows and chickens free in the city streets. Phnom Penh isn’t very big, but it’s very easy to get lost in. It’s crowded and sweaty and hectic, dangerous, and there is the always difficult language barrier. It rained all afternoon, and when I looked off my balcony, Rithy was playing badminton in funny short track shorts and a muscle tank. He reminds me of my uncles in the Philippines (Jesse and Jeanry), laugh, belly, and all.

Last night Fay and Tim took us out to eat at Chi Cha, it's an Indian restaurant downtown, where the SM's last year would get delivery from everyweek. It's $2 U.S. for a 5 course meal. You mostly can eat a fairly large meal for around a $1. At Chi Cha, I ordered chicken curry for $.90. But my favorite part is the fruit. The marketplaces are full of rows of fresh fruit for very cheap. And you can get fresh fruit shakes for a couple thousand reil (4000 reil is $1 U.S). I just thought I'd mention the food, because when I talked to Brian, that was the first question he asked. So, yes, it's good! Ha. I miss you friends!

I set up my classroom today. It is still a mess! I now have only Sunday to do all of my lesson plans. I want to be a good teacher. I wish I could say I had the time to be one.

2007-08-30T00:44:00.001-07:00

dinner on the mekhong river (Left: Heather, Kim, Rithy / Right: Liz, me, Janice, Jephone)

august 30

Today i am sitting in a makeshift 3 day excel class, in a crowded hot room with ancient computers, filled with cambodians that i cannot understand, they hit my back, pull my arms in every direction, "help me katrina," they say, thick with accent, then they talk so loud and fast in khmer to one another, and then again, to you, in broken english. i listen closely with stern concentration to make sense of their few english words. i am american. so american. today i just sat there and laughed, and laughed, and could not stop. look where i am. look at my situations. look at my arms being pulled out of their sockets! (and this is only a workshop for teachers, the students haven't even come yet!) i'm halfway across the world. not just for leisure travel, for vacation, but work. i'm living here. i'm out of my mind. ecstatic. insane. stressed. and i'm happy. really. i am. praise God.

2007-08-28T22:32:00.000-07:00

august 29

The traffic in asia has always, from my previous and present experiences, been chaotic. Beyond chaotic. Dangerous. Deadly? To the average american, I'd say driving is definitely not safe. You don't have lanes, signs, rules, regulations, and the few traffic lights they installed, nobody stops at. If you do stop, traffic will run into you from behind. No, it is not wise or safe to follow the rules. Some people have cars, some have bikes, but most ride on motorcycles. You can ride on the back of a "moto" (what they call it), for about $.25. Even though their driving is so crazy, they don't have more accidents than we do in the U.S. It is okay to have someone else drive you here. But today, I rode my bike to school. There is a 5 way stop, I turn uphill, and cars, motos, trucks, bikes, they came at me from every direction. Everyone is stopped and honking, and I just get off my bike as I am cornered in traffic and starting to tip over on my bike (that is too big for me, as the previous owner was a Caucasian male volunteer from last year who was at least over 6 ft. A group of young local boys laughed at me, point, wave at me. I am going to die. Will I ever get used to this? Should I get used to this?

Yesterday, JC took us to town. We went by the Mekhong River, and there was Buddhist religious festival in front of the palace. The air was thick and smoky from burned incense they kept inside cracked coconuts. They waved lotus flowers in the air, and took turns standing crammed into a small room where the spirit inhabited. Young boys nearby sold small sparrows that you could buy to set free, while hundreds of families and sad-eyed children sat on plastic mats with their food. They were also selling food by the river, fruit, eggs, fish cakes, even snails. JC bought us some boiled corn, and we ate it by the riverside.

I'm hoping to get my schedule and books sometime today. I still haven't recieved it. I will have 31 students (in my 1st grade homeroom) all on my own, not to mention 22 in 8th grade math.

Please keep me in your prayers, as you are in mine.

Photos will come soon.

2007-08-27T04:59:00.001-07:00

august 27

I've finally received clarity on my duties as a missionary. It was our first day of teacher training. I am teaching the 1st grade. I am the home room teacher, so I teach all the subjects, except for the one period a day, where I will be teaching 8th grade math. I even teach music. The kids speak little to no English, but we are known as an all-english (international) school, we uphold this reputation and the rules are that we never speak Khmer on campus, only English. How will I communicate with my students? I ask myself this, with no answers.... but I am excited. Oddly. I'm ecstatic. We recieve the textbooks for our classes tomorrow, most of the classes don't have teacher's editions. I have 4 days to do all of my lesson plans, and I will hand in yearly, quarterly, weekly, and daily lesson plans, just in case someone needs to fill in for me. I have 4 days to get creative. I am nervous. Yes. A little.

Heather and I walked to an internet cafe at the marketplace, Psa Jaa (? i can't remember). More will come later, but I thought I'd share pictures.

2007-08-25T05:21:00.000-07:00

august 25

At 6:30pm, we hear the “Noodle Seller” walk by from inside the Rogers’ house, he plays percussion on what sounds like a hollow wooden instrument. Phnom Penh is an interesting city, and because that adjective is horribly vague, I’ll say that it is magical, wonderful, destructed, poor, corrupt, where happiness and pain boils, bakes, fries in every street cart on every street corner in the city, where love and hate breathe the same air. It’s not extraordinary or particularly beautiful, yet it has life, laughter, poverty, beautiful, simple people; a city that compels you, excites you, depresses you: a perfect catalyst for discomfort and movement. Just what I said I had been looking for.

I live in an apartment at the steeple of the church, with two girls, my friend Liz from Walla Walla, and another girl I just met from Union, named Heather. We go up three flights of stairs, the last an iron spiral staircase, and we have the most beautiful balcony, where you can watch the stars if you wake up at 4am, like I did this morning, and then again just before 6am with Liz, where we watched the sunrise (which I took a picture of it, you can see it above). The Khmer's take this peaceful luxury for granted now, as I told a fellow staff at lunch of our experience and he replies, "does the sun not rise in U.S.?" We live across from Khmer mansions, we're told all the money to build them comes from corruption.

Liz and I (pictured above in our apartment) befriended a couple from Burma, who spent the last 5 years teaching in Seoul, Korea. 3 weeks ago they went to Thailand, did a week of prep, a week later (2 weeks ago) got married, went on their honeymoon all through Thailand, and then right after that, came here to Cambodia. The wife, Kimberly, has a youthful energy that is real and relevant, a laugh that is warm, funny, genuine, and inclusive. She's gutsy and dynamic, and says things (at our sabbath potluck) like, "westerners eat so quietly and stay in the same place, I like to eat and laugh and talk and keep eating. I feel like I'm eating at my own funeral." And when you laugh, she puts her finger over her lips, "sssshhh!" she says with a smile as wide as a jack-o-lantern. The husband is named Benjamin, and has black-rimmed glasses and silly jokes and funny commentary. He plays guitar and piano, and is genuinely nice. I am glad I have met them. It makes these transitions seem easier and more fun.

I miss you guys all, so tremendously much. Mom and dad. I hope to call you soon. Love you always and forever.

2007-08-18T20:00:00.001-07:00

august 18

Hi. I thought it proper to introduce myself.

I'm Trina, and I'm going to Phnom Penh (pronounced pA-NOM pen), Cambodia (leaving in 4 days), where I'll be living with two other girls in the steeple of the church. I'll be teaching English, just blocks from downtown, no car, but I've been told that I'm going to be given a bike, If I wish to ride it, to transport me from place to place. My apartment (in the steeple of the church), is a couple blocks from the school, and I was told today, from a friend of a previous employee, that there is a high risk of running over wild chickens in the street. While I hope I don't, details like this excite me.

I'm silly and non-confrontational, I'd like to think of myself as flexible, accomodating, but am often stubborn. I'd actually say that both are true, as I am a walking contradiction, in desperate need of God's grace. I also like to be right, noticed, and needed. I'm a comfortable, complacent 19 year old, and while I'm not getting any younger, and only delving further into the responsibilities and complexities of life and adulthood, I've taken my head out of clouds for long enough to realize when action is necessary for change and self-betterment. I thought it was time to do something about it. As a result, I took this opportunity.

I'm a lover of art, music, creativity, innovation, ingenuity. I like good food, books, films and conversations of substance, love all that is well-designed, aesthetically pleasing in a way that is stimulating, original, and unique. Writing is how I make sense of things. I'm a hard worker. A worry-er.

Naive in the way that I always wants to assume the best in people.

Be my friend, and keep me in your prayers.
For I promise to do the same, whether you comply or not.

I'll write often.