"This isn't who it would be, if it wasn't who it is."

"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.

"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.

"And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me, shine on until tomorrow."

Blinding light. The old floodlight, its protective lens missing, illuminated my face and the entire stage. I squinted out into the crowd, their faces lost in the bright white, I knew they were there, the town's culture center was filled to bursting. All had come to see the teachers perform for Mongolian Independence Day. The holiday itself would fall two days later on Saturday but the town had elected to hold the performance on Thursday, November 24th, Thanksgiving. I swallowed hard and glanced down at the loaned electric guitar I was instructed to play with. "Designed In the USA!" the headstock bragged. I stole another glance at the soundbox to see Damdin, the school's P.E. teacher and musical efficinato, eyeing me encouragingly. I inched a little closer to the microphone and summoned some Mongolian for the short speech I prepared.

Earlier that month:

My body jerked left and right as the two tailors and one child tugged on the felt belt that held my new Mongolian deel together. Finally when they were satisfied and I felt as though all the air had been squeezed from my lungs they took a step back and held a mirror in front of me. The long flowing robe went town to just past my knees, held together with simple cloth buttons and a felt belt, I was assured by the tailor that the traditional everyday Mongolian wear would be warm and make me look like a proper citizen. I expressed my gratitude for her hard and quick work in making my deel then left to head back to school. Looking for one of my counterparts I wanted to find a way to express my gratitude to the teachers and my director as well. When I was told I needed a deel for the upcoming Mongolian holiday my director promptly had the materials purchased from Ulaanbaatar and brought back to our town. When I offered payment he refused, "It is a gift from our school." So when I finally ran into Bolormaa, my fellow English teacher I asked her how I should thank everyone. She told me there would be a teacher's meeting that very night. Perfect.

Two days before concert:

"Angle hel duu!" (English song!) Damdin exclaimed excitedly when I asked him what song I should perform for the concert after just learning it was two days away. After he narrowed it down to three English songs "all Mongolian's know" I opted out of Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On", and decided to return to what has slowly been turning into my Peace Corps alma matar. As well as my performance I planned on giving a surprise intro speech to thank the school, as the teacher's meeting, unsurprisingly never occurred. I had practicing to do and new Mongolian words to learn.

Thanksgiving:

I cleared my throat and laughed nervously looking out over the silent crowd. I started out as planned, thanking my director, the teachers, and the school staff for all chipping in to buy me such a warm and beautiful deel. I carried on to thank the whole town for hosting me, helping me, and being so understanding and generous. For letting me be a part of their lives and always making sure my ger was warm. Unbeknownst to the attentive townspeople I was sharing with them the true meaning of the American holiday they knew nothing about. When I finished they clapped and I looked down to the soundbox at Damdin. He gave me a nod and the man sitting next to him, whom before the show mimed playing a Jimi Hendrix style guitar solo asking if I would play the real thing, gave me a thumbs up. He's gonna be disappointed, I thought. I strummed a C chord and played.

After the show, me and Dakraa walked home together from the culture center. Within the first several paces of our walk we exhausted the typical idle conversation our language barrier would allow. "How did you like the concert?" "Are you cold?" As we walked in silence I glanced around the dark town, seeing different shades of grey smoke billowing from the tops of gers and houses, to wisp up into a night sky full of stars. In the quiet cold night Dakraa hummed a tune from the concert as we neared our yard. Recognizing it immediately I joined in, together we hummed "Let It Be" as our homes came into view.

You gotta wait a minute, wait a minute, Mr. Postman, deliver the letter, the sooner the better!"

The sky explodes with sound as the three F-16's streak overhead leaving colored contrails of red, white, and blue in their wake. Awestruck I drop my axe next to the pile of wood and look skyward over the roof of my ger. The jets are followed by a lumbering cargo plane and as its shadow covers my hashaa a hatch opens and a brown box descends to earth, letting loose a gigantic parachute bearing the stars and stripes as it lands with a thud at my feet. A helicopter whirls in place over my head, a cable falls to ground and a lone solider slides down to stand in front me. Red, white, and blue fireworks are shot off from somewhere beyond the mountains. He produces a clipboard, "Package, sign here."

"Sign here." I'm roused from my stupor as the mailman repeats himself again in Mongolian and pushes the clipboard across the counter, tapping the paper with a pen. The fanfare and fantastical scenarios often play out in my head every time I hear I've got mail waiting for me at the post office. I always feel like a little kid waiting to open his presents when I stand on one side of the counter staring at the mail on the windowsill I surely know is for me. Waiting anxiously for Gombojamts, our towns no-nonsense, and only postal employee to relinquish my prize to me. He'll often, as if sensing my eagerness, test my patience. "Watch my room for me, I'll be back." Taking back the now signed clipboard he walks around from the counter and exits the post office. Leaving me alone to stare at my parcel or letter still resting on the windowsill. After reading (or trying to) every poster on the wall multiple times and obsessively fantasizing about what my mail could contain he finally strolls back in and calmly sits down at his chair. Finally after some casual rustling with papers he'll push across the counter what I came for. I quickly thank him and snatch it up and bolt out the door.

I owe much, and am very grateful for the Mongolians I have met in this country. Since my arrival they have shown me guidance, generosity, love, and at the least have tolerated me. I would not have made it long without their unquestioning assistance. Though my real gratitude is to those of you back home, who often send me your written or packaged support. Whether its news of life back in the states or a package of American foodstuffs (Velvetta never tasted so good) it gives me a little slice of back home, lifts my morale and spirits, and reminds me of the life I'll return to. So to all my family and friends, thank you for all the love, support, and well wishes. Your responses are coming, I can assure you, Gombojomts is even more finicky with outgoing mail, so hang tight! All of the Mongolian kindness would count for nothing if I didn't know I had all of you behind me. Being so isolated, in one of the most sparsely populated countries in the world, knowing I haven't been forgotten and getting so much love from an ocean away, means the world to me. I could never express it enough.

Happy Thanksgiving.

"'I'm gonna smash my way out that's all', cried the bird and smashed from wall to wall, 'There must be some way out!', he cried, and his desperation echoed down the hall, just another bird in a house, dying to get out."

Flashback: Orkhon

A lazy summer evening. Me and my host family sat in the living room. Me in the large comfy armchair, which was always conceded to me without my asking. My host mother sat on the couch next to Jarga and Mogi, while my oldest brother Moojig played a computer game from the nineties. The sun, fighting to stay skyward as it did every summer evening struggled to keep the last of its light above the mountains. The TV droned Mongolian into my ears that I couldn't understand, moths hovered around a single lightbulb. I was roused from my stupor by a familiar flapping. Not one but two tiny chickadee sized birds flew from the room with the pingpong table into the family room.

In other houses, even in Mongolia this may have seemed a peculiar occurrence, but in my house it was commonplace. My mother would often boast of how safe Orkhon was, "Not like the city!" she'd exclaim. As a result our door would idly sit open all hours of the day. Besides the frequent Mongolian visitors, everyday would also welcome in birds who would flap and hop about investigating every part of the tiny house. On more then one occasion I would have to shoo them from my room after their poor sense of direction would get them hopelessly trapped.

So I didn't give it much of a second glance when the two little birds fluttered above my head and began repetitively darting from one corner to the next looking for the exit. With the sun down the two little birds had no beacon to guide their usual way to the door. So they flapped and bounced off the windows and walls until my oldest brother growled something under his breath and both Mogi and Jarga got to their feet and began trying to coral the two little birds to the doorway. Jarga wielding a broom and Mogi waving his shirt only caused the birds to seek different routes in their endless circumnavigation of the room. They clattered behind the TV, flew through flowers and hopped over the family's altar. Dipping and diving over my two brothers heads as they laughed, side stepping and ducking out of the way.

It was too much for me to not partake. I stood up, discarded my shirt and began working up a sweat trying to shoo two birds from a house. We laughed jostling between each other trying to get in the right strategic position to get the birds towards the door. Mogi, who having climbed on the arm of the couch to improve his stature, hobbled backwards on one leg loosing his equilibrium as a bird wizzed past. Jarga, one minute swinging the broom formidably would cringe and transform it into a mock helmet when a bird dived too close. All the while my mother rocked back in forth with laughter on the couch at our comical attempts. The irony did not escape me, here I was with people born of some of the best herdsmen in the world, attempting to herd two tiny chickadees. Finally a bird clattered against the door frames and fluttered out into the night. Me and my brothers, exhausted, panting, and sweating, clapped each other on the back in congratulations. The noise carried on as we realized the second bird was still trapped. We all exchanged tired glances. My host mother having gone silent, stood up, quietly walked over to the windowsill where the tiny bird had found a perch and calmly picked it up. The bird did not struggle or chirp, merely resigning itself to be carried to wherever my host mother chose. Me and my brothers watched dumbfounded as she then casually walked to the doorway and released the bird into the darkness. She came back into the room and no longer able to keep a straight face burst out laughing. Me and my brothers couldn't help but join in. "Yaaj?"(How?) I asked. Still laughing through teary eyes she replied, "Bi eej baina."

"I'm Mom."

"While walking down a gravel road winter came and turned their breath to stone."

I came to a dead stop as I exited my ger one morning. I had barely cleared the threshold when I was greeted by a sideways flying mixture of ice, rain, and snow. My ger, my hashaa, my whole town was covered in a thin layer of white. The biting wind, unhindered by obstacles such as trees, tall buildings, or mountains, seemed to stampede across the open steppe, propelling itself right into my face. I quickly back-stepped inside, yanking on the door against the blustery resistance. Maybe today is a day for gloves.

Whenever I think that I've been forgotten, that I surely won't last another week against unfamiliar elements, a cohort of Mongolians will reveal themselves to show me that they still got my back. Later on that day when the weather still refused to relent, I stood in my doorway looking helplessly at the pile of wood in my hashaa, wet, icy, and inflammable. I gazed back inside my ger, my felt roof now saturated and soaking through with sleet, and frozen rain. I can almost hear the cavalry bugle when at that moment six Mongolian men, no doubt sent at my school director's request came marching through my hashaa gate. They aren't empty handed, a huge plastic tarp, a cast iron stove, and a sack of coal. I watch in grateful astonishment as they immediately set to work. Two men replace my old apparently "summer stove" with the cast iron one, telling me that now I can burn both wood and coal. The others begin wrapping the tarp around the roof of my ger waterproofing it from the still bitter weather. The wind whipping and blowing they mill about laughing and joking with me, "Mongolia is beautiful, right?" "You like the snow, don't you?" One man reaches down and pelts another with a snowball. "See, its nice" he exclaims. After they finish I stand with them as they share a cigarette, I thank them over and over again, and as they go to leave one man explains to me that I will thank him again when it gets cold out. I shudder at the thought instead of the already frigid temperature.

Later on that very same day, the sun returned to the sky, the weather let up and the temperature rose. Within an hour the snow had melted away, it was as if the storm had never happened. As I strolled back to my new and improved ger from the store I gazed out over the roofs, fences, and gers. The distant mountains had been painted white, giving them a different depth and scope I hadn't noticed before. The coming of winter had left its mark after all.

"Oh and there's a feelin' runnin' through you. Oh and then you're smiling like a Buddha."

Teaching can be exhausting.  Usually after a minimum of three hours of teaching in a row I'm pretty shot.  Reprimanding boys getting into free for all fights, showering the only person in class with candy because she was the only one that did the homework, warding off the horde of hands eager to pull a letter of the alphabet out of a hat because they don't understand that, in fact everyone will get a turn.  Peppered in these times of chaos are moments that make me covet, appreciate, and value my experience.  They're moments that make me smile in ways I didn't think I could.

Friday's 5th grade lesson involved the genitive case.  I decided to best illustrate this by including some photos of home to modal my grammar point.  "My brother's name is Mitchell."  Gesture to the photo of my brother, point taken.  The lesson started out with me attempting to explain how in English the "'s" designates possession.  I got the usual half paying attention, half "lets throw something at the kid in front me"classroom response.  Next I wrote a short paragraph on the board, each describing the names and titles of the people in the pictures I would display.  Mother, father, brother, grandmother, grandfather.  Then came the time for the unveiling.  One by one I taped the pictures up on the board, giving them a caption of what member of the family they were.  As I stood with my back turned, taping up my small little family tree I heard silent gasps from around the room.  Hushed murmurs and awed expressions, you would have thought I just revealed the Arc of the Covenant.  I turned around to a wide eyed, curious class.  Kids in the back stood up straining to see, while others supported themselves on the shoulders of kids in front of them stretching higher to get a peak at my American family.  Finally, one of the students in the back said quickly to me in Mongolian, "Teacher, I can't see."  I gestured with my hand for him to come closer and get a better look.

Little did I know, he was apparently speaking for the whole class.  Almost in unison all thirty 5th graders got up from their seats and surged forward towards the board.  I quickly sidestepped out of the way as they pressed up against the chalkboard.  Crowding around, pointing, and chattering excitedly to each other.  Kids in the back stood on tip toes to peer over the kids in front.  Short kids clambering for position hopped up and down for a better look.    They ran their fingers over the pictures, studying every part of this different lifestyle they could only get a small taste of in photographic form.  I watched fascinated by their fascination.  I pulled my camera from my backpack and snapped a few pictures.  I noticed my face hurt.  I don't know when I had started smiling, but I couldn't stop.