Back to the US

When I landed in JFK, it didn’t take long to get into an argument with a (very rude) utter moron. On my customs form, I wrote down Lesotho and USA in the space for country of residence. I have a residence permit for Lesotho, but I am still a legal resident of the state of NJ (I have a driver’s license and am registered to vote there). When I got to the front of the line at customs, the agent asked, “Which country are you a resident of?” I said, “Lesotho and U-” before I was cut off. “You can’t have two countries.” I try to explain the situation so that he could tell me which is the country relevant to put on the form, but he cuts me off every time I open my mouth and just keeps repeating, “Yeah, yeah, you have to pick ONE.” Finally I just said, “Fine. USA.” He scribbles something on my form. “So you are now staying permanently in the USA.” “No, for ten days,” I told him. Then he shouted that the US is therefore not my country of residence (which we could have ascertained long before had he actually tried to listen to me). I threw up my hands, “Then put Lesotho.” “I can’t!” he said. “I already crossed it out!. . . and I don’t know how to spell it.” I spat out the letters before stomping off to baggage, and the man called after me, “Welcome hoooome!”

Welcome home indeed. It took about an hour for our luggage to appear on the baggage carousel and a terrified voice would intermittently apologize for the wait, which he would blame on a different vague problem every time. When I emerged into the arrivals area, my parents were waiting with a coat and scarf. Knowing that the New York winter would be at least 60 degrees warmer than the Lesotho summer I was coming from, I emailed my parents from my layover in London (Heathrow being it’s own freezing-and expensive-hell) to bring me some winter things to the airport. I bundled up over my linen pants and t-shirt which smelled like horse and sweat as I had boarded the plane a day and a half before, immediately following a pony-riding field trip with my students.

The entire way from the airport to my parent’s house, I was pretty sure we were going to crash, but my father kept insisting we were just in the midst of a little something called traffic. And not the kind of traffic we have here in Southern Africa where you brake a lot and crawl along the road, but the kind of the traffic where you drive as you normally would, only the road is as congested as a bumper cars arena. Culture shock #1: tri-state area traffic.

I spent the last bit of bitterly freezing daylight, running through the leafless tree-lined suburb and fell asleep in front of a plate of eggplant in a Jersey diner meets Jersey Italian kind of a restaurant. Thus ended my first day in America after a 20-month absence.

I spent the following day in New York City. Culture shock #2: double-decker trains. That’s right. New Jersey transit, when did you get so . . . tall? I fell down the stairs my first time on one of those. And it was not on the stairs to the upper story, but on the stairs going from the doorway to the seats on the bottom . . .because I was staring at the second story. Culture shock #3: obese pigeons. They were actually spherical. When I met Angela at the Met, I asked her what on earth had happened to this ubiquitous city critter, but she claimed that is how they always look. For the rest of the day I managed to disgust an employee of the museum by losing my entrance badge and requesting another, eat vegan Thai, and attempt to get a slice of vegan chocolate peanut butter cake at my favorite bakery/bar/music venue/used record store, but settled for a less satisfying cupcake instead when I found they were all out.

But the real reason for my trip to the US besides stuffing myself full of warm, fresh bagels that taste slightly of the paper bag they sell them in was for job interviews.

The job fair was like a freaky parallel universe where a normal job application process goes into fast forward. For several weeks leading up to the job fair, you post your profile on the agency’s website, scour the website for openings and email countless resumes to schools. Once you arrive at the actual fair, technology goes backward a couple centuries, and communication happens via notes. Everyone has a folder in a filing drawer and candidates can write messages to recruiters and vice versa. Upon arriving at the fair I saw a postcard in my folder that said, “Have you ever dreamt of working in a chalet in Central Switzerland right on Lake Luzern with a small group of 4-5 year olds?? I would love to talk to you-please stop by our table and set up an appointment!!”

1. No I haven’t ever dreamt of working in a chalet in Central Switzerland right on Lake Luzern with a small group of 4-5 year olds. . .but I am now!
2. Is this really a request for a job interview or are you trying to sell me something?

During the 4 hours of sign-ups, you wander around a massive hotel conference room trying to get schools to grant you an interview for later that weekend. Posters behind each table indicate what positions are open and if there are any requirements. When I made my stop at the table for the school in Switzerland, the openings were listed as-I am not joking-soccer positions. It said, verbatim:


-Striker (With ability to teach High School math)
-Midfield (Some High School IT experience needed)
-Defense (Prefer experience in Primary and Middle School learning support)
-Goal keeper (Background in Middle School General Science).
-Winger (Must be experience in Early Childhood, Quick on feet)
-Bus Driver (Also need to teach primary German[?!])

So I actually had to walk up to a school principal (who inquired, in writing, about my Swiss chalet dreams), introduce myself and say, “I would like to apply for the position of Winger.”

I tried to stick close to European tables because they all had chocolates. After inquiring at a school in Helsinki, I reached for a hazlenut bar, only the recruiter thought I was going for a handshake and extended his arm. I made an awkward U-turn from the chocolate bowl to his hand but he had already pulled his hand away. It could not have been more awkward, but he just said, “Go on, have some chocolate.”

In addition to applying to be a Winger at the chalet school, I set up interviews with schools in Accra, Cairo, Doha (on a whim), Kinshasa, Kuala Lumpur, Mumbai, Sadiola (middle of nowhere mine in Mali) Sofia, a school in Japan whose city I can’t remember, and ditto for Saudi Arabia. I actually had no intention of working in Saudi Arabia-EVER-but the director hunted me down and charmed me into signing up. I later cancelled that interview. Interestingly, another teacher who was interviewing for a school in Saudi Arabia told me it’s known as the New Jersey of the Middle East, as in, disdained by it’s neighbors (I’m also from Jersey). I spent a fair amount of my networking time teaching people how to pronounce Lesotho (Le-soo-too). Apparently people from Qatar (Cutter) had the same problem. Thus began an exhausting weekend of interviewing in hotel rooms overlooking the frozen Charles.

Perhaps my most interesting interview was with a school in Kuala Lumpur. The elementary school principal was deep-voiced and huge (although my hands are small, I was surprised when we went to shake that my hand was thoroughly engulfed-as in, my fingers could not reach around to the other side of his hand). He was suffering from temporary facial paralysis that left him completely unable to smile. Do you have any idea how unsettling it is for an grim-faced giant with the voice of James Earl Jones to tell you that he likes you? Very.

As you can imagine, there is only one place you can end up after a stressful winter weekend in which you have shaken about 400 people’s hands, and that is with a very bad cold. Luckily my friend Jordan pumped me full of Emergen-C, respiratory tea, osha root extract (vile), elderberry syrup (pretty good), and Kumbucha (a home-fermented Russian tea- tastes like cider vinegar) and I was more or less fit to get on the plane back to summer.