I recently heard about a documentary entitled Nursery University about the crazy and competitive process of enrolling a child in preschool in New York City, an ordeal exacerbated by the post- 9/11 baby boom.
When I first heard of the premise of the film, I spent a good hour trying to download a trailer of it, certain that I would see a parent or school I knew from my time living in New York City and working in two preschools there. Sure enough, I saw two shots of the first teacher I worked for. Also named Sarah, she was a burnt-out and flighty hippie who filled my closet with patchwork skirts and guazy blouses that no longer fit her. When I joined her class, she became Big Sarah and I became Little Sara and she was a wonderful person to have as a mentor.
I don't know if I would have found the trailer so amusing if I was not thousands of miles away from any place where this situation could possibly exist, but I laughed with tears running down my cheeks. And thankful to be here where the pressure and anxiety in this field is not nearly so high.
Check it out the website, go see the movie for me, and keep your eyes and ears open for the DVD.
www.nurseryuniversitythemovie.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aESkMeVksvs
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Oh. My.
The children went home four hours ago and I'm still here at school. I was immersed in a massive April cleaning when I had to stop to laugh for eight solid minutes after finding on my desk the following "current event" synopsis written by one a nine-year old student here.
"February 19, 2009
Shoe Thrown at George W. Bush
On Thursday at 14.00 pm someone threw a shoe at George bush because he killed the sandmen. That person is the sandmen's friend in Texas. The shoe was put up at the flags place.
By Thabo"
Still laughing. . .
"February 19, 2009
Shoe Thrown at George W. Bush
On Thursday at 14.00 pm someone threw a shoe at George bush because he killed the sandmen. That person is the sandmen's friend in Texas. The shoe was put up at the flags place.
By Thabo"
Still laughing. . .
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
How Did I Get Myself Into This? OR Four Events of Note OR Maybe It Was Just the Rickettsia
ONE
One evening recently, I found myself on my hands and knees in a sandbox wearing a strapless dress, the toes of my silver shoes sinking into the sand and windblown grains sticking to my freshly applied make-up (well freshly applied lip balm anyway). I had arrived a bit early to the annual school international celebration/fundraiser to search for a missing painting from the student art sale that I had organized (because somehow I am an art teacher in addition to a preschool teacher). Parents and school administrators insisted the painting was lost somewhere at the school, and after about a dozen frantic yet monotonous searches on my part, it was discovered the painting had been left at the framing shop. Earlier that day I had made a pie for this dinner, during the process of which, I burned a temporary rectangle onto my face from leaning against the oven and super-glued my hand to a barrette in the pursuit of multi-tasking. I made up the recipe which resulted in a fragrant pie that was less structurally sound than a house of cards. The smell of the pie, the fact that it seemed rather volcanic in its quivering and dripping, its heat which made me sweat profusely, and the bright red rectangle on my face attracted more than the usual amount of white-person attention I would normally get on public transportation. The day before was slightly less eventful, although it did involve me hauling all of the furniture and a good deal of teaching materials out of my classroom so it could house the buffet. I was not in the most pleasant mood to be collecting tickets at the gate at this point, but it was supposedly my last task in this consuming event. Then one of the parent organizers, Paul, sought me out to inform me that he was out of empty wine bottles in which to place candlesticks. He had some metal canisters he thought he could fill with sand to do the job. “Could you direct me to the sandpit?” he asked. I walked him across campus, lifted the tarp off for him, and turned to walk back to the gate. But Paul had an even better idea. This idea was namely that I should climb into the filthy sandbox, dig in the wet sand with my bare hands (no shovels were outside because it was a Saturday) and fill the cans myself. I should have punched him. At some point he said something like, “sorry it’s a bit messy.” And I responded with something like, “I teach preschool and art. I’m used to it.” I should have punched myself. I’m going to start saying “no” tomorrow.
TWO
I have been illegal for ten months now. After finally getting my work permit, I went on the requisite quests for this documentation and that, the chest x-ray, the passport photos, the certified photocopies of every piece of paper I possess to finally legalize my residency. After an hour of sitting and waiting, the person with the ability to make my life infinitely easier appeared in the dirty window. I had spent much of this hour removing purple tempera paint from underneath my fingernails with a pen cap, and contemplating how nice it will be to not have to leave the country every thirty days. Note: this woman was not going to actually give me the residence permit. She was merely going to toss all of my documents onto a pile and tell me to come back in a month. Yet for some reason, my presence is required in this red tape circus act. She flipped through the contents of my envelope, “uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, fifty maloti please.” Then she pushed the stack of papers and candy-colored money back through the window. This was an ominous moment of the transaction, I had not been informed of a step in which everything you were told to bring is cast out of the room where against all bureaucratic odds, little pieces of paper are awarded to frazzled foreigners. “The woman who takes the money isn’t here.” Yes, apparently only one person in the entire Office of Immigration can count money and make change. The face behind the window politely inquired as to whether or not I would like to wait for an indefinite period of time with my thoughts and dirty fingernails for the money lady to return, but I declined. Defeated, I asked when I should come back and after all that, she said, oh you don’t have to come back, just send someone with your papers. Apparently, one’s presence is required on the first attempt to submit your paperwork, yet most people are rejected because the typist is out, or the electricity is out or the receptionist’s pen ran out of ink. Then, without making any note that the applicant made an appearance during attempt number one, the Office of Immigration waives the requirement of appearing in person for all subsequent attempts. I contemplated whether this was some sort of test, like they want to know how cooperative you are or if you ask too many questions or if you have the waiting room equivalent of road rage before they grant you permission to stay in their country, but really, it’s just Lesotho.
THREE
This is also Lesotho. Last week, while riding home in the “taxi” (what in America would be something the size of a van with more seats squeezed in), I opened the little wicker container where I keep my change, and did probably the worst thing I could have done on crowded public transportation. I dropped nearly 100 coins on an otherwise silent taxi. Everyone turned to stare at me. I was squished against the window and I made a few graceless attempts to squeeze my arm between the seat and the wall, but accomplished nothing except to elbow the woman beside me. There was also no space between the rows to squat down in and retrieve the money. So people started poking me from all sides saying, “your money is there, your money is there.” And I shrugged and pointed at the spaces large enough for several dozen coins to fall through but not my arm. What did they expect me to do, when surely they could see that other than unloading the already-moving, entire taxi, there was no way I was getting my money back? All of the other passengers were turned to face me and they began an impassioned conversation in Sesotho that I could not follow. I was pretty sure they were saying, “These white people are so rich that they can just drop their money on the floor and are too lazy to bend down and pick it up.” After several minutes the conversation died down and I was nearing my neighborhood. I called out my stop and once I hopped off, with bright red face (neck, chest) probably glowing, I rushed to cross the street despite cars speeding in both directions. The woman who had been sitting beside me grabbed my arm when I was halfway across, and said “Wait, this abuti [brother] is helping you.” I turned and saw that the rest of the passengers had climbed off behind me and a teenager in a pristine school uniform was shimmying on the filthy, oily floor picking up my coins one by one. It took about five minutes passing painfully slowly, in which I added gratitude and awe to my current embarrassment. The young man finally handed me the change. Nearly all of the coins were 5 lisente ones, which, all added together, were about 50 cents in USD, barely more than the price of the ride (and they don’t even usually take such low value coins for fare). For my fellow passengers, office workers and students making their way home at rush hour, comfortable enough to afford to take public transportation, the loss of this amount of money would be an annoyance, but hardly dire. Yet they all prolonged their already long days even more and conspired to return every last coin to me.
FOUR
Last month during midterm break, my neighbor and colleague, Bob, and I decided to head in the same direction and went up to the lovely South African town of Clarens with a Florida missionary. Besides delicious restaurants, art galleries and homemade chocolates, Clarens has a spa. I’d never been to a spa before, but decided to try. Bob even decided to go along as well and we made consecutive appointments for hot stone massages. Claire, the missionary, headed to the spa with us to read in the lobby, while the receptionist informed Bob and I that the room for our “couples massage” would be ready in five minutes. I choked on my own saliva. It did happen to be Valentine’s Day but Bob is 55 years old. From our combined nervous laughter, and the fact that Claire was in hysterics, the receptionist gathered that we were not a couple, said “no problem,” and we were brought to the changing room. The massage therapist directed us to our respective robe and terrycloth tube dress and then to our rooms. No, make that room. We resumed with our nervous laughter and reiterated that we were not supposed to share a room, whereupon she apologized for the misunderstanding but told us that was all they had. She said, “I’ll cover your eyes with towels.” We looked at each other, shrugged and said, “why not?” We were already there, and Valentine’s weekend was a busy one so we knew we wouldn’t be able to make another booking. While we were having our massages, the receptionist went to Claire and apologized about the room situation again. They started chatting and Claire mentioned how Bob and I teach at the same school. “She’s a teacher,?!” the receptionist said shocked, “I thought she was 15 years old! I thought they were father and daughter!” Claire, said, “No, none of us are related or together in any way.” “So you’re not the wife?!” “Um, no.” They essentially thought that Bob and I were having a little Valentine’s Day father-daughter massage, and Claire was the mom/wife who just isn’t into spas. Or as I understand their version of the scenario, Bob was the pedophile, I was the abused adolescent and Claire was the enabler. Either way, Bob fell asleep during the massage and snored the ENTIRE time.
From Valentine’s Day up until now, the end of March, it seems like my life has been populated by one weird situation after the other. Two weeks ago, I got a high and prolonged fever and blinding headache and convinced myself that I not only had malaria, but that it’s been churning in my body since returning from Mali, and all of my odd daily encounters were actually quasi-hallucinations. I went to the best clinic in Maseru (where a month prior while getting the physical for my residence permit the doctor wrote down a number for my blood pressure I have since been told is impossible) to request a malaria test. The doctor said, “You know, there is not a high prevalence of malaria in Lesotho.” No shit. There is no malaria in Lesotho, but I calmly explained that I have traveled in several malarial areas. He proceeded to tell me my temperature was normal despite the fact that I was shaking, soaked with sweat and hot to the touch. Then he said he can’t give me a malaria test but he can give me the malaria treatment. He said if I don’t feel better in two days then we know it was not malaria. “So what will I do then?” I asked him. “Come back for a malaria test.” “But if this medication will make me better if I actually have malaria, and it doesn’t make me better, why would you test me for malaria?” “Well we can test you for other things.” “Like what?” “Bacterial infections and viral infections.” I gave him a piece of paper and said, “Write them down.” I couldn’t read a single thing he wrote. He gave me prescriptions for the malaria treatment, and two different medications for the fever I supposedly didn’t have, one for daytime and one for nighttime. I went back to school to make sure everything was arranged for the students for the rest of the day so I could go home. I also looked up the medications on-line and found that the malaria treatment isn’t even supposed to be given in areas where it is not endemic, and that it’s been banned in several countries for causing heart problems. And the “fever” medication for nighttime was actually Valium. Great.
After a few more days of delirious teaching, the headache that wouldn’t go away was starting to make me nervous. I used to have a roommate paranoid about getting meningitis and any time she got a symptom, would run through a checklist of all the other symptoms. So in addition to all of the neurosis I was born with and those I inherited from the family worrywarts, I had visions of Alexandra bending her neck to test for stiffness, and convinced myself my brain was swelling. So I did something I try never to do and that is cross the border because things are better on the other side. I made an appointment with a South African doctor, and as I rushed there from parent-teacher conferences I started to worry I’m going to be diagnosed with hypochondria or hysteria. But lo and behold, I’m diagnosed with a UTI and tick bite fever. You would think that in Africa, I’d manage something a little more exotic than one infection in my bladder and another from not tucking my pants into my socks, but I guess it’s a different Africa way up here in the sky.
One evening recently, I found myself on my hands and knees in a sandbox wearing a strapless dress, the toes of my silver shoes sinking into the sand and windblown grains sticking to my freshly applied make-up (well freshly applied lip balm anyway). I had arrived a bit early to the annual school international celebration/fundraiser to search for a missing painting from the student art sale that I had organized (because somehow I am an art teacher in addition to a preschool teacher). Parents and school administrators insisted the painting was lost somewhere at the school, and after about a dozen frantic yet monotonous searches on my part, it was discovered the painting had been left at the framing shop. Earlier that day I had made a pie for this dinner, during the process of which, I burned a temporary rectangle onto my face from leaning against the oven and super-glued my hand to a barrette in the pursuit of multi-tasking. I made up the recipe which resulted in a fragrant pie that was less structurally sound than a house of cards. The smell of the pie, the fact that it seemed rather volcanic in its quivering and dripping, its heat which made me sweat profusely, and the bright red rectangle on my face attracted more than the usual amount of white-person attention I would normally get on public transportation. The day before was slightly less eventful, although it did involve me hauling all of the furniture and a good deal of teaching materials out of my classroom so it could house the buffet. I was not in the most pleasant mood to be collecting tickets at the gate at this point, but it was supposedly my last task in this consuming event. Then one of the parent organizers, Paul, sought me out to inform me that he was out of empty wine bottles in which to place candlesticks. He had some metal canisters he thought he could fill with sand to do the job. “Could you direct me to the sandpit?” he asked. I walked him across campus, lifted the tarp off for him, and turned to walk back to the gate. But Paul had an even better idea. This idea was namely that I should climb into the filthy sandbox, dig in the wet sand with my bare hands (no shovels were outside because it was a Saturday) and fill the cans myself. I should have punched him. At some point he said something like, “sorry it’s a bit messy.” And I responded with something like, “I teach preschool and art. I’m used to it.” I should have punched myself. I’m going to start saying “no” tomorrow.
TWO
I have been illegal for ten months now. After finally getting my work permit, I went on the requisite quests for this documentation and that, the chest x-ray, the passport photos, the certified photocopies of every piece of paper I possess to finally legalize my residency. After an hour of sitting and waiting, the person with the ability to make my life infinitely easier appeared in the dirty window. I had spent much of this hour removing purple tempera paint from underneath my fingernails with a pen cap, and contemplating how nice it will be to not have to leave the country every thirty days. Note: this woman was not going to actually give me the residence permit. She was merely going to toss all of my documents onto a pile and tell me to come back in a month. Yet for some reason, my presence is required in this red tape circus act. She flipped through the contents of my envelope, “uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, fifty maloti please.” Then she pushed the stack of papers and candy-colored money back through the window. This was an ominous moment of the transaction, I had not been informed of a step in which everything you were told to bring is cast out of the room where against all bureaucratic odds, little pieces of paper are awarded to frazzled foreigners. “The woman who takes the money isn’t here.” Yes, apparently only one person in the entire Office of Immigration can count money and make change. The face behind the window politely inquired as to whether or not I would like to wait for an indefinite period of time with my thoughts and dirty fingernails for the money lady to return, but I declined. Defeated, I asked when I should come back and after all that, she said, oh you don’t have to come back, just send someone with your papers. Apparently, one’s presence is required on the first attempt to submit your paperwork, yet most people are rejected because the typist is out, or the electricity is out or the receptionist’s pen ran out of ink. Then, without making any note that the applicant made an appearance during attempt number one, the Office of Immigration waives the requirement of appearing in person for all subsequent attempts. I contemplated whether this was some sort of test, like they want to know how cooperative you are or if you ask too many questions or if you have the waiting room equivalent of road rage before they grant you permission to stay in their country, but really, it’s just Lesotho.
THREE
This is also Lesotho. Last week, while riding home in the “taxi” (what in America would be something the size of a van with more seats squeezed in), I opened the little wicker container where I keep my change, and did probably the worst thing I could have done on crowded public transportation. I dropped nearly 100 coins on an otherwise silent taxi. Everyone turned to stare at me. I was squished against the window and I made a few graceless attempts to squeeze my arm between the seat and the wall, but accomplished nothing except to elbow the woman beside me. There was also no space between the rows to squat down in and retrieve the money. So people started poking me from all sides saying, “your money is there, your money is there.” And I shrugged and pointed at the spaces large enough for several dozen coins to fall through but not my arm. What did they expect me to do, when surely they could see that other than unloading the already-moving, entire taxi, there was no way I was getting my money back? All of the other passengers were turned to face me and they began an impassioned conversation in Sesotho that I could not follow. I was pretty sure they were saying, “These white people are so rich that they can just drop their money on the floor and are too lazy to bend down and pick it up.” After several minutes the conversation died down and I was nearing my neighborhood. I called out my stop and once I hopped off, with bright red face (neck, chest) probably glowing, I rushed to cross the street despite cars speeding in both directions. The woman who had been sitting beside me grabbed my arm when I was halfway across, and said “Wait, this abuti [brother] is helping you.” I turned and saw that the rest of the passengers had climbed off behind me and a teenager in a pristine school uniform was shimmying on the filthy, oily floor picking up my coins one by one. It took about five minutes passing painfully slowly, in which I added gratitude and awe to my current embarrassment. The young man finally handed me the change. Nearly all of the coins were 5 lisente ones, which, all added together, were about 50 cents in USD, barely more than the price of the ride (and they don’t even usually take such low value coins for fare). For my fellow passengers, office workers and students making their way home at rush hour, comfortable enough to afford to take public transportation, the loss of this amount of money would be an annoyance, but hardly dire. Yet they all prolonged their already long days even more and conspired to return every last coin to me.
FOUR
Last month during midterm break, my neighbor and colleague, Bob, and I decided to head in the same direction and went up to the lovely South African town of Clarens with a Florida missionary. Besides delicious restaurants, art galleries and homemade chocolates, Clarens has a spa. I’d never been to a spa before, but decided to try. Bob even decided to go along as well and we made consecutive appointments for hot stone massages. Claire, the missionary, headed to the spa with us to read in the lobby, while the receptionist informed Bob and I that the room for our “couples massage” would be ready in five minutes. I choked on my own saliva. It did happen to be Valentine’s Day but Bob is 55 years old. From our combined nervous laughter, and the fact that Claire was in hysterics, the receptionist gathered that we were not a couple, said “no problem,” and we were brought to the changing room. The massage therapist directed us to our respective robe and terrycloth tube dress and then to our rooms. No, make that room. We resumed with our nervous laughter and reiterated that we were not supposed to share a room, whereupon she apologized for the misunderstanding but told us that was all they had. She said, “I’ll cover your eyes with towels.” We looked at each other, shrugged and said, “why not?” We were already there, and Valentine’s weekend was a busy one so we knew we wouldn’t be able to make another booking. While we were having our massages, the receptionist went to Claire and apologized about the room situation again. They started chatting and Claire mentioned how Bob and I teach at the same school. “She’s a teacher,?!” the receptionist said shocked, “I thought she was 15 years old! I thought they were father and daughter!” Claire, said, “No, none of us are related or together in any way.” “So you’re not the wife?!” “Um, no.” They essentially thought that Bob and I were having a little Valentine’s Day father-daughter massage, and Claire was the mom/wife who just isn’t into spas. Or as I understand their version of the scenario, Bob was the pedophile, I was the abused adolescent and Claire was the enabler. Either way, Bob fell asleep during the massage and snored the ENTIRE time.
From Valentine’s Day up until now, the end of March, it seems like my life has been populated by one weird situation after the other. Two weeks ago, I got a high and prolonged fever and blinding headache and convinced myself that I not only had malaria, but that it’s been churning in my body since returning from Mali, and all of my odd daily encounters were actually quasi-hallucinations. I went to the best clinic in Maseru (where a month prior while getting the physical for my residence permit the doctor wrote down a number for my blood pressure I have since been told is impossible) to request a malaria test. The doctor said, “You know, there is not a high prevalence of malaria in Lesotho.” No shit. There is no malaria in Lesotho, but I calmly explained that I have traveled in several malarial areas. He proceeded to tell me my temperature was normal despite the fact that I was shaking, soaked with sweat and hot to the touch. Then he said he can’t give me a malaria test but he can give me the malaria treatment. He said if I don’t feel better in two days then we know it was not malaria. “So what will I do then?” I asked him. “Come back for a malaria test.” “But if this medication will make me better if I actually have malaria, and it doesn’t make me better, why would you test me for malaria?” “Well we can test you for other things.” “Like what?” “Bacterial infections and viral infections.” I gave him a piece of paper and said, “Write them down.” I couldn’t read a single thing he wrote. He gave me prescriptions for the malaria treatment, and two different medications for the fever I supposedly didn’t have, one for daytime and one for nighttime. I went back to school to make sure everything was arranged for the students for the rest of the day so I could go home. I also looked up the medications on-line and found that the malaria treatment isn’t even supposed to be given in areas where it is not endemic, and that it’s been banned in several countries for causing heart problems. And the “fever” medication for nighttime was actually Valium. Great.
After a few more days of delirious teaching, the headache that wouldn’t go away was starting to make me nervous. I used to have a roommate paranoid about getting meningitis and any time she got a symptom, would run through a checklist of all the other symptoms. So in addition to all of the neurosis I was born with and those I inherited from the family worrywarts, I had visions of Alexandra bending her neck to test for stiffness, and convinced myself my brain was swelling. So I did something I try never to do and that is cross the border because things are better on the other side. I made an appointment with a South African doctor, and as I rushed there from parent-teacher conferences I started to worry I’m going to be diagnosed with hypochondria or hysteria. But lo and behold, I’m diagnosed with a UTI and tick bite fever. You would think that in Africa, I’d manage something a little more exotic than one infection in my bladder and another from not tucking my pants into my socks, but I guess it’s a different Africa way up here in the sky.
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