"HELLO. TEACHER!"
The classroom of 10th graders greet me together as they stand at attention next to their desks. I ask them how they are and they respond in robotic unison.
"I'M. FINE. THANKS. AND. YOU?!?!"
I tell them I'm fine and let them take their seats knowing full well that any other response would bring on confused grunts, blank stares, and possible brain aneurisms. Today's lesson, brought to you by our schools mandated British English textbook: Cell Phones! Complete with a plethora of useful vocabulary: display, buttons, accessory, message, SIM card and more! Usually I like to steer the lesson in my own direction away from such non-applicable themes (entire chapters devoted to contortionists and Chinese foot binding for example) but Munkhkherlen, my counterpart, convinced me to follow the book on this one. So using my own phone as a prop I went through the pronunciation of each word. Somewhere during "blue tooth headset" (a device I've yet to see in Mongolia) a student shouted out a question. I understood and didn't quite know how to answer. Munkhkherlen translated, taking my hesitation for not understanding. "Justin teacher, what is your phone number?" Other students quickly echoed the request, and I cringed at the thought of thirty something 10th graders calling me whenever they got bored. "It is a good idea, if they need help or want a tutor", Munkhkherlen whispered to me. Thats when the light bulb went on in my head. I'll give it to them in English! That'll severely reduce the amount of kids who actually get my number! No sooner had I finished reciting it then one of the class's more advanced students shouted out each digit in clear Mongolian. I grimaced as I watched pens scratch against paper. I nodded to myself satisfied that everyone else in the room was satisfied then picked up my chalk. I turned around and placed the chalk against the board, poised to write the next word. I was stopped before I could even make a mark. The familiar noise reverberating from my pocket.
My phone was ringing.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
"Is there anybody out there?"
New Jersey
So many planes.
On a hot summer day me and Jackie lay out on the front lawn, listening to music and enjoying the fresh air. Blue skies, lazy clouds inching across our vision. Nothing hampered our view.....except the planes. Big, small, commercial, military, high and low their contrails crisscrossed through the blue, streaking it white, turning the sky plaid. "How many is that?" I wondered aloud as another appeared on the horizon. Within ten minutes of looking up, without craning our necks or even straining our eyes, upwards of twenty planes had crossed within our eyesight.
I back-stepped, regaining my balance, tilting my head further skyward. Not a cloud stained the blue above me. The sky seemed so expansive the plane seemed to move at a snails pace heading northwest. Mongolians eyed me suspiciously as they passed me on the street, no doubt thinking, What is this dumb American doing now? As I stumbled and swayed from side to side straining my neck to follow an airplane. If this were the first one I'd seen I would have thought the aircraft lost, having wandered off its flight path the pilots having decided to make the Hail Mary decision and fly into the unknown. I could count on one hand the number of planes I have seen since I've been here. Always flying in the same direction, I've hypothesized they're traveling from Beijing to somewhere in eastern Russia (Irkutsk? Chita?), no layover in Mongolia. The huge airliner full of its business people, vacationers, and travelers, moving from one big city to the next. It seemed I could look out into infinity, blue sky, flat steppe, me standing in little Omnodelger with its wooden houses, and little white gers, and tiny dirt roads. I stared back up again as the plane came directly overhead. It gave me a bittersweet sense of isolation.
I wonder how many of them know they're over Mongolia?
Do they know they're on top of a town?
..........
No one knows I'm even here.
So many planes.
On a hot summer day me and Jackie lay out on the front lawn, listening to music and enjoying the fresh air. Blue skies, lazy clouds inching across our vision. Nothing hampered our view.....except the planes. Big, small, commercial, military, high and low their contrails crisscrossed through the blue, streaking it white, turning the sky plaid. "How many is that?" I wondered aloud as another appeared on the horizon. Within ten minutes of looking up, without craning our necks or even straining our eyes, upwards of twenty planes had crossed within our eyesight.
I back-stepped, regaining my balance, tilting my head further skyward. Not a cloud stained the blue above me. The sky seemed so expansive the plane seemed to move at a snails pace heading northwest. Mongolians eyed me suspiciously as they passed me on the street, no doubt thinking, What is this dumb American doing now? As I stumbled and swayed from side to side straining my neck to follow an airplane. If this were the first one I'd seen I would have thought the aircraft lost, having wandered off its flight path the pilots having decided to make the Hail Mary decision and fly into the unknown. I could count on one hand the number of planes I have seen since I've been here. Always flying in the same direction, I've hypothesized they're traveling from Beijing to somewhere in eastern Russia (Irkutsk? Chita?), no layover in Mongolia. The huge airliner full of its business people, vacationers, and travelers, moving from one big city to the next. It seemed I could look out into infinity, blue sky, flat steppe, me standing in little Omnodelger with its wooden houses, and little white gers, and tiny dirt roads. I stared back up again as the plane came directly overhead. It gave me a bittersweet sense of isolation.
I wonder how many of them know they're over Mongolia?
Do they know they're on top of a town?
..........
No one knows I'm even here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)