Last Drops

The remainder of my time in Asia was a bit like sucking the citrus juice out of unwritten days.

Elephants became the official mascot of the trip,
with the etched textures in their skin,
reminding us to remember.

I remembered a pile of forgotten things.
To give more
and not take more than I need
because voids create vacuums
and love is all there is.

Laos was so green and alive,


despite the Secret War that left Laos one of the most heavily bombed countries in the world. Many UXO's still linger in the ground, which explode when humans gather them (knowing the risks) to sell them as the scrap metal is valued more than flesh. It is a sick story illustrating the sickening and evolving irony of capitalism. However, there are powerful organizations like COPE that spread hope in the form of free prosthetic limbs
to replace the warm skin ones lost in explosions.




In Northern Laos, we were able to volunteer at an Organic Farm, painting their bar and encouraging travellers to buy Mulberry Mojitos--all proceeds went to the local school.


And then the Mekong River lazily drifted us to Northern Thailand.

Our time in Chiang Mai was sculpted by Mollie's generous Thai family, as they fed and sheltered and taught us songs about fruit and wetting the bed.

We were delightfully usurped in their lives.

We fell into the Loi Krathong Festival, which celebrates the goddess of the water.
The full moon mirrors the rice paper lantern, as it fills up with the hot air that will waft it to the sky. We spent nights burning new constellations.


We released buoyant lanterns upon the river, carrying our wishes bobbing dangerously close to the water--bumping against all the other delicate desires.

Our final stop was the Baan Unrak Orphanage on the Burmese-Thai border, where we painted mass amounts of murals with/for Burmese refugee children:


A Magic door to the Center of the Universe/God's House


A "Hand"Scape Mural, where hand prints were added by individual kids and volunteers as pledges to take care of good old earthball.


Many small hands were transformed into leaves and flowers,
as kids promised to respect our planet.


Washing hands after was a crucial aspect of the activity.


The kids painted this depiction of their home in a harmonious fashion


And we squished out a calming Sea Scape,
which became very interactive even as the paint was drying.

Then the political conflict in Thailand bubbled over into a protest that shut down the Bangkok airports for 8 days, an interval in which I was scheduled to leave the country. After a long train and some other madness, I escaped from Kuala Lumpur and fled to London.

The UK served as a two-week reintegration station, with playful undertones.


And finally, home happened.

The past two months have been thick and rich,
with my roots curling down
into family and friends and familiar spaces--


finding new ways to fit into these old shapes.


I've just fallen back into another tiny world,
of warm faces and crumbling economies, cold air and heavy days and wild hopes.

I'm just now rapt up in the process
of reflection


while frantically reshaping the lump of my current clay reality.



Finding the balance between my rushed fingers scribbling plans and
trusting this evolving story to find its own bright path through the creamy fog air.

Shooting Out A Root

Since the South East Asian reunion of the scattered yipyiping Scripps graduates, life has unfolded into a generous clump of adventures.

First, we allied with time and conquered space by finding each other in Singapore in late September, unwittingly overlapping with the first-ever night time Formula 1 Races.

While this made it virtually impossible to find a room, it did have its advantages.

In response to the swarming crowds, the citystate (while normally immaculately groomed and conspicuously sleek) was cloaked in perfectly placed glitter and visually stimulating treats designed to impress tourist eyeballs.

Tengku Mahmud School in Terengganu offered different delights.

We team-taught a lesson dubbed "Each One, Teach One,"which had students draw blind contour portraits of each other and then fill them in with colours and writing about all the different things they wanted to teach and to learn. One student wanted be a computer hacker. Another, "to be the perfect boyfriend." Teaching skills included the cooking of various dishes, playing of assorted sports, and "how to die." The students were exuberantly shy and some spontaneous autograph sessions exploded at the end of classes.

We also painted a mural.

"The Promise Tree" encouraged students to make environmentally friendly decisions, while igniting constant joy in its aesthetic value.

There were some sad goodbyes, especially with the women that worked in the canteen, as they generously nurtured me in that warm dirty kitchen.

Our next stop was Southern Thailand, where we spent days in Chaomai--a small town of sea-gypsies,



and met a human named Sinchai (owner of Sinchai's Resort).

Our first 12 hours: Sinchai served us beers rather late at night and then surprised us by beating on our door yelling "wakeupwakeupwakeup!" at 6:30am the following day. He then forced us to eat and get on a boat, promising us we would be happy. We were. After several hours of groggy snorkeling, we swam through a pitch black cave tunnel and emerged into a pristinely turquoise lagoon in the middle of limestone cliffs.

Also, we painted a sign for him and he paid us in crabs.

Additionally, we saw the sky compromise in a overwhelmingly attractive manner:

simultaneous pastel moon rise

and flamboyant sunset.

Cambodia opened into another chapter.

Phnom Penh is a heavy city, with history coating the air like coarse dust. S-21 was an old high school that the Khmer Rouge converted into a torture and interrogation prison during the genocide in the late 70's. From this place I learned about the US's extensive bombing of Cambodia during the Vietnam war, and the sickening extent of human cruelty.

Pray not Prey

The Killing Fields was where many Cambodians were mass murdered during the four-year genocide that wiped out 20% of the country's population--particularly the educated. It is unnerving to walk in this quiet green place and try to fathom the atrocities that occured underneath the neutral trees and the sweet breeze that softens the brutal sun.


The reflection of sky over the skull-filled monument. This fresh history is still festering in all elements of Cambodian life, although it is constantly glossed over in Angkor Wat...

Angkor What?

Siem Reap is a crumbling town littered with the majestic ruins of 1000 year old stone temples. Blocks tumble into cubist landscapes.

Now, many of them are undergoing green redecoration of the natural variety, the tentacles of trees prying walls apart and dividing human effort with patient strength.

Also, the poverty of Cambodia has birthed a are a host of the most inspiring NGO's here. We stumbled onto an amazing organization to educate and empower street children, called The Global Child. We were able to do Past, Present, and Future self-portraits with the kids, and various stories spilled onto brightly colored paper.

These are not the kids we did art with, but they are indeed Cambodian students.

I also fell head over heels in love with Saray Tonle, an organization which empowers women to weave sellable products out of water hyacinth, an invasive plant taking over the Tonle Sap Lake. In this way, the plant's harmful effects are curbed, the women make money using this abundant resource, instead of fishing the shrinking fish population, which is another environmental issue. So good.

Once again I'm inspired about the power of art to impact positive change,

and the creative abilities of humans to work together to promote a sustainable and peaceful world, while acknowledging the depths of violence.



The tree on the left was chopped down, but its neighbor shot out a root and has kept it alive. Word.

Stacking Up Into Stories

The section of my life with the working title“Teaching English in Malaysia” is nearing its bittersweet end. This short story has seeped into a sketch-book that lives with me, and I now invite you to a guided tour of its contents.

I fell off my world, and into another one.

(Falling off the edge of my own tiny world.)

It is rather anxiety-producing and disconcerting to pick up roots

and land clumsily onto other land, but…

(you can't be very grounded if you want to fly).

*collaborative piece by Zoe, Joe, Jackie, Ken, and Jon.

This new world is fully equipped with spectacular characters bursting with potential interaction.

However, I am also very aware of the reverse truth:

(...I'm just a character in everyone else's story).

Existing as a character in other' lives means that I often feel like an unmarked canvas

for people to write their own winding stories on.

(Hi, I'm the new blank being for you to project on to.)

The hardest aspect is the solid distance from those I love,

but when physical truths limit proximity,

it is an opportunity to explore a landscape inside.

(Spaces split faces, but minds seam them together).

I have found many faces places wishes and memories twitching within.

(Being, not giving,

twisted up in my own chest,

thin but infinite).
*It's a haiku, count it

One time, when I was trudging around my inner landscape
I realized that the secret to enjoying life
is to let life be what it is.
Much of my last year has involved accepting the new world.

(As long as you let the dream change, you can always live the dream).

*Zoe did the majority of this

The new world is different. It has new words, and a delightfully user-friendly system of grammar to wrap them up in (no tenses, no genders, no verb conjugation ever).

(Bawang = Onion...my favorite word in Malay)

This place has new ways of treating race and religion.

These labels are obvious neon flashing, facts, unapologetically separated

(No one can marry a Muslim without converting first, there are different uniforms issued for the Chinese and Malay students)

into neat little pictures, like refrigerator magnets.

(Races dismissed as glossy calendars.)

The new land has new rules.

Following the new rules has distinctly clarified the old ones.

Women's bodies are encouraged to be concealed or revealed,

but its always another placing judgment on the vessel and controlling sexuality.

Two sides of the same coin.

(Conceal Reveal)

New rules carry new consequences.

Aspects of me that were previously uncontroversial (displaying shoulders, drinking beer)

instantly lit up as secrets when I stepped into Terengganu,

the second most conservative state in Malaysia.

(Entering Terengganu, my secrets multiply...)

This world is in communication with other worlds, it has pertinent roots in other stories.

(and relevant wars fester in nearby borders.)

Which highlights the thick lessons to be learned, and help me readjust my priorities

(love, hydration, mangos)

(The practice of loving is the healing force that brings sustained peace. -bell hooks)

Sometimes you have to fall off of your own world to

(remember).

Life is a series of moments

stacking up into stories.

(Fill them carefully).

Shifting Landscapes

The landscape around me has melted and reformed multiple times in the past weeks, each time shifting hues and acquiring new scents, flavors, characters, textures, and soundtracks.

The first fresh scene to grow up around me was Hanoi, where my tight little taste buds blossomed with street foods, all sugar baked and sweetly glazed, or salty sandwiches or steaming bowls of pho noodles. Easy gray skies rested on unspeakable greens, and silvery smooth darkchocolate water sank into land while the city writhed with traffic and action.

In Hanoi proper, crossing the street is an act of faith. With frantic honking and ceaseless streaming traffic, the only rule is to keep moving and let the motorcycles swerve gracefully around your little walking bundle of flesh. It really is an excellent trust-building activity. I consistently trusted Vietnamese motorcyclists with my life. The traffic also provides a tempting metaphor for our individual journeys through life: it never slows or stops or becomes safe. You just have to step into it with all your senses turned all the way up, and trust the other players in this insane game we call reality.

They appear harmless when still.

The major characters were street vendors, offering a monotone litany of every possible drug, yet throwing a literary temptation in the middle: "Coke? Pills? Marijuana? Books? ..." I guess they figure if you don't like drugs, you'll love books (and visa versa?).

I celebrated my 24th birthday in a funky Chinese junk boat, gliding across the slick rippling waters of Ha Long bay.

Accompanying us on our boat was someone who looked like the Dalai Lama's twin brother, except he had three 3's shaved into the back of his head. I assumed this was a religious symbol and asked its significance. He replied: "It's a beer brand." Enlightening.

Within Ha Long bays massive limestone formations came the most dramatic change in scenery. The caves swallowed you up into their dramatically lit textures, piled up all around like psychedelic melted candle wax. It was pretty epic.

My birthday evening featured two very enthusiastic Vietnamese guys who insisted on giving my brother and I too much tequila. Their English was limited to the phrase: "Vietnamese...good people!" Other than that, we were limited to thumbs ups and other basic gestures. At one point, one of them added: "Go home and tell them...Vietnamese...good people!" I told him I would: so consider yourself updated. It was a strangely poignant way to forge healing for a past of violence that continues to fester in the land today.

My brother and I visited the Military History Museum. While buying a ticket, the ticket lady asked where we were from. "USA," I said. Automatically, I added: "Sorry..." However, I quickly realized that apologizing to the ticket booth people for the Vietnam war seemed slightly inappropriate and strange. Still, I'm very sorry about all war. I'm just not sure who to address the apology to, exactly.

As Hanoi sank back down into the earth, the scenery relaxed into rolling hills, which were coated in different crops sewn together like patchwork: utterly dominated by sunflowers and corn and lazy floppy clouds. Ripe plums dropped slowly like days too full of sweet juices. This was Bardigues, a tiny town in Southern France.

Hay swirled into itself while vegetables roasted and cheese spread and people gathered around the glorious cuisine and whole-grain laughter. Mix in a bit of chilled wine and it created medicine for my rice infested belly.

Then a blast of cool air and the comforting grandfatherly presence of brick buildings signified a brief intermission into the old grays of London...

with the colorful exception of Selah Hennessy and her wardrobe

(which she generously shared with me).

Activities: Walking and baking cookies. Frequenting pubs and thrift stores.

Finally, the East Coast of Malaysia has risen up and reformed around me, nearly identical to how I remembered it. Except now it is Ramadan, and I am teaching rather hungry kids who wake up at 4:30AM to eat and pray before the day of fasting begins. I walk into classrooms sometimes to find the majority of my students sleeping. I sometimes apologize before teaching. I sneak off and chug water quietly in the toilet. I never thought I'd feel guilty about hydration. At first I tried fasting, but I soon remembered that I am not a fantastic person or teacher without food. But more importantly, the act carries no meaning for me. Rituals must be infused with meaning in order to be fulfilling and while Ramadan is rich with significance for the Muslim world, I haven't found my relationship with it yet. Regardless, its ample food for thought, and meanwhile I'm unfurling into the new slower and softer rhythms of Ramadan.

Another fresh landscape emerges, in a familiar place.

Grand Events and Water Falls

Life has recently been heavily studded by a series of seriously grand events.

The first magnificent occasion was the English Talent Show I planned for my school. This event had a rather bizarre line-up...

ranging from the small and scared-looking wiggling of teachers' offspring,

to another showing of that reoccuring AIDS play (bit of a downer),

to the schools' very own 15 year-old boy band blasting electric guitars,


to the "Global WARN-ing" Choral Speaking performance,

to my brother, friends, and my redition of R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly."

This event was well-attended by students, but basically boycotted by the teachers, as stringed instruments (especially electric ones) are slightly haram in the Qu'ran. The planning of the Talent Show doused me with stress and anxiety, especially as it was so disconcerting to find out that many things I consider to be talents (guitar, dancing) are actually significantly sinful.

My brother's visit, a grand event in and of itself, consistently wove into the rest of the celebrations.

No one believed he was my brother, and I was constantly asked about wedding dates and potential children. I tried to combat this strange and incestual conversation by reiterating that he was my "abang" which means older brother in Malay. However, after several days of introducing my "abang" to everyone, I was informed that this word also functions as a pet name that wives call their husbands. I obviously sent out some mixed messages, and am still generally perplexed about how "brother" becomes the equivalent of "sweetheart."

My brother and I engaged in various activities: including dancing, teaching, visiting caves crawling with monkeys, and watching sharks mate. Seeing the sharks was one of the most amazing and terrifying things I've ever witnessed. They were roughly the same size as me and seemed very aggressive about the whole thing. My brother and I were the only ones in the water, and we quickly exited after our brief underwater voyeurism. We also saw monkeys steal, open, and eat Pringles, which was a close second in terms of visual stimulation.

Another remarkable happening was the false wedding of Sarah and Ezra (two of the ETA’s and two of my favourite human beings). This is actually one of the most absurd ceremonies I have ever witnessed.

The couple was dressed up in matching hot pink bridal gear,

paraded around and entertained with silat (fake fighting),


seated in thrones (each with their own fanner person),


and physically positioned into a variety of poses for a non-stop, exhausting photo shoot.

I actually suspect that this is what many Malaysians would love to do to each of us visiting Americans. Dress us up in glittering costumes, coat our faces in piles of make-up, tack on some fake hair, match us up into neat little couples, and then parade us around, taking pictures as if we were shimmering props.

Not that (white) people haven’t been doing variations on that theme to many humans for thousands of years. It must be hard wired into our nature, this desire to transform other beings into your fantasies and then have them act out your stories for you. Sometimes I see this glint in my students’ eyes, and I know they are imagining me as their personal Barbie doll. Its creepy.

Finally, the Earth and English Camp was the culmination of all joyous and stressful celebrations. This camp, planned by several of us Americans was designed to spread environmental love through three-days of activities.

The kids on the bus, and the entire camp before beach clean-up.

First, we divided the kids up into different elemental teams. As any good card-carrying tree-hugger should, I led the Forests. Each student painted themselves as a tree on our team flag. "WE heart FOREST"...

We tried to make picking up trash on the beach into a game, by making it a competition. I'm not sure the kids were convinced...

It was a dead tie between the Rivers and the Oceans.

I spent the majority of the camp, in the toilet washing trash. After cleaning the garbage, I instructed the students to make monsters out of it. They were exceptionally creative and created some magnificent creatures out of styrofoam chunks and old broken flipflops.

Monster trash creation station... where magic happens. This is why I believe in art. You can spend hours explaining the intricacies of litter and trash and facts and figures, but no shift in the brain is guarenteed. But give a kid some trash and tell them to make something useful with it and new pathways are being carved into the mind. Rubbish is solved like a problem, and ultimately transformed. Magic.

Bloody Mary monster???


These creations are some of the best art I've ever seen...After the monsters were made, we organized a "Trash Monster Fashion Show," meaning that the students paraded across stage, striking poses with the monsters formerly known as litter. Murdoch is already making offers to buy the video. We're holding out.



Some of the kids looked a bit like their monsters. Which is cute.


We also did other things, like play games.

Capture the flag.

The best and biggest thing: we put on some music (for a freeze tag game) and as soon as the audible vibrations hit the air...a massive dance party erupted! Dancing is not allowed (except very traditional forms in specific settings), and so, in this room with no Malay authority figures, the muscle fibers of these 130 Muslim kids started twitching in long repressed rhythms. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I cried.

Teaching the kids the wave.

Other grand events are on the verge of erupting: brother and I head to Hanoi soon and this is followed by a brief intermission in Southern France. I will return just in time for Malaysian Independence Day, and then the month of Ramadan will unfold. Finally, the arrival of a crew of four magical maniac revolutionaries has been confirmed for the fall. These glorious creatures will help me wrap up my time at school, and then our adventures will spill onto other SE Asia borders. I’ll keep squishing the events into these funny electronic formats, until 16 December, when my only two feet will land once more on the shores of the USA. God willing.

In the meantime, I'm consciously collecting some more grand events, captured like willing butterflies in generous nets. Sometimes they try to hide, or camouflage themselves into the folds of time. But I'm too clever for that. I'm looking out. I got a good one just yesterday and it went like this.

I watched water fall.

Nothing falls like water.

You're the Superhero!

The strange patchwork of my time in SE Asia has enjoyed some colorful additions.

First, this thing called Teachers Day happened and it was good. It is a day of teacher worship, which manifests itself in a series of games and piles of presents (mainly towels). We threw water balloons, bounced balls on tires, and ate a lot of rice.

I acquired 2 wash cloths, 3 dish towels, and one large bath towel, among other treasures.

I spent 2.3 weeks in Indonesia, visiting Bali and its Eastern neighbor, Lombok. Bali was full of temples and tourists and small flower-filled offerings. We spent our first nights in Kuta Beach which is the epitome of wack. Kuta is the place that got bombed in 2002, and walking among its seedy crazy night clubs splattered with alcohol and related sins, I could see why people might think it is hell on earth. Of course, violence is never a good method of resolving fear.

This is sin.

Ubud, is inland a bit, and deeply green and full of tempting shiny things and old tangled spirits.

Lombok is Bali's Muslim counterpart. My life high-light list was significantly lengthened on this glorious lush landmass. There was swimming, dancing, snorkeling, and general madness. We motorcycled down roads that were accurately described as "broken," which twisted the situation into a strange dirt-biking racing event (trying to get off the insane roads before dark made it impossible to survive). I used to scoff at such activities, but it was an exhilarating adventure in the end.

Please observe one of my life high-lights in action.

These children were absurdly great. The baby had been eating candy.

Jon Strahl became precisely one year older while simultaneously leading a small group of maniacs in a rousing karaoke experience. The song was about cats, and he sang it twice because the Indonesians in charge of the operation wanted it that way.

Then I came back and realized that this program has some serious issues. Namely that some high-up officials have decided this region needs some shaking up and have placed me in the thick of it to spread this strange, vague Americaness I supposedly leak out everywhere I go. But most people don't want their life disturbed by the wild West, and I am a human--not a propaganda machine. Also, the program is seriously lacking in financial and political support.

It simultaneously struck me I'm stuck here for many more months.

Additionally, I suffered a bed bug infestation. Bed bugs are really wretched creatures. They reproduce entirely by "traumatic insemination" which is a fancy name for rape. So my bed was infiltrated by blood-sucking rapists and it didn't do wonders for morale.

Then my mom came and she offered sublime perspective. We co-taught some classes and impressed all Malaysians with our gravity-defying hair and combined friendliness.

Then she left and I sunk into a slight depression. Things are looking up now, as I'm discovering ways to work less and laugh more. An English Talent show is in the works, and a visit from my only brother is imminent.

Updates: The RESPECT mural is finally finished, thanks to the help of this security guard, who painted crazy things on the wall when I wasn't looking.

Earlier in the year, I was instructed to write a play about an entire family that dies of AIDS, but apparently it was not depressing enough and I didn't include sufficient details--like vomiting blood. As a result, the task was taken away from me. Recently, however, I was re-enlisted to direct it, although it was a new script with fun additions like attempted suicide and ghosts. The play, in all its emo-glory, ended up winning 2nd place in the competition (we would have gotten first, except there was some severe "over-crying"), and the award for Best Script (no thanks to my writing talents).

Happy drama kids.

Also helped coach debate team, and debate is really weird.

Happy Debate People

Even weirder: is choral speaking, which consists of 20 students singing/speaking in unison with hand motions, and I'm helping direct that too. Which is funny because I don’t know what it is, but I did write the script: "Global Warn-ing. " It’s based on a Magic School Bus-type field trip into the issue of global warming and includes verses like:

Messing up weather
is what global warming’s about
Some areas flood,
while others have drought,
The heat increase changes the air
And makes weather crazy everywhere!

(Its basically the lovechild of Al gore and Dr. Suess.)

And melting the frost

Comes at a very high cost
When ice melts at the poles as it gets hotter,
It raises sea levels, putting us underwater!
And it gets even worse!
If the ice continues to shrink
Many plants and animals will become extinct!

(Its pretty depressing, but luckily some solutions are offered):

Don’t use a dryer…
Let your clothes air dry!
And exotic food, you must not buy.
Local food doesn’t use transportation.
So eat what grows within your nation!
Drive less!
Bike more!
Use your legs, that’s what they’re for!

And finally, a message I will pass on to all of you, relevant to all matters in addition to global warming.

You’re the superhero,
Saving our world’s up to you!
So think of the impact of every thing that you do!

Drastically Open To Interpretation

My life is developing a distinct flavor, a composition of varied elements that constitute my current scenario. It's like:

Wide open concrete classrooms beneath whirling fans bickering with the humid heat—

coating lush green plants and frequent calls to prayer (each of the many mosques is equipped with a loud speaker blasting Arabic voice melody coaxing the faithful to their duty), while women weave like fluorescent butterflies in their bright, floral baju kurungs—

around motorcycles and mangy feral cats with their faces lost in fish remains,

under air studded with formal greetings (“Good morning, Miss”) and wrapped up in shy, but naughty giggles—



periodically pounded by violent rain and wrapped up in soft pervasive gossip, all slathered atop an endless foundation of rice. The mixture must be eaten with the right hand only, while the infamous dirty left one wraps around some mango juice, a coconut shake, or an iced Nescafe.

Each morning I wake up into this reality around 7am, which is far too early for me, yet all the students and general community have been up praying and laughing since 5:30am or so. I shake the twisted dreams out of my hair and coax myself into another day.

Sometimes I feel like a old but special couch

Sometimes when I’m walking around this school dressed in strange hot silky neon gowns that conceal the vast majority of my being, I wonder what exactly I am doing here. Sometimes it even happens in the middle of class: I’m explaining the difference between “bored” and “boring”—often students write statements like: “Watching too much TV makes me boring” (which is true but not their intention), and I realize where I am and I don’t know what I’m doing here. ‘Here’ meaning in this school of course, but that question of purpose is one of those that seeps, leaks, spreads until you are wondering what your purpose is exactly on this planet of earth. Then you notice the whole class is still staring at you and you continue on with teaching, but the question remains, festering beneath thin skin.

What is going on?

Everyone else seems pretty clear about their purpose—religion really helps with that one. Islam IS a way of life. I think they say that about all religions, but praying at least five times a day really brings the point home. Islam permeates conversations, food, calendars, minds, until it is absolutely inseparable from life. While I’m learning a lot about the religion, I’m also deeply aware that all my knowledge arrives through the filter of Malay culture, specifically Terengganu where I live (which is entirely different from the rest of the more diverse and liberal states). Across the world, the multiple interpretations of Islam are astounding. I just read this article about Saudi Arabia in the New York Times, which blew my tiny mind. There, the genders exist in entirely separate universes, not allowed to see or speak to each other unless married, related, or breastfed by the same woman (really interesting practice called “milk kinship”).

It makes Malaysia seem like a wildly liberal place.

What is your favourite thing about yourself?....My humps?

However, it all exists on the same spectrum—different interpretations of the same text. In Saudi Arabia, music is widely considered to be Haram (forbidden/sinful), while here the only problem instruments are those with strings (yet, several of my students play the guitar).

Playing Hotel California

Members of the opposite sex are allowed to speak to each other (unlike Saudi Arabia), just not loudly and they probably shouldn’t sing publicly. This is posing major problems in the Talent Show I am supposed to be planning. Still, students seem to bend the rules, as many of my students are dating (which I think means talking occasionally and texting frantically). I recently got a letter that peppered me with the usual questions: “Are you happy here? How many siblings do you have?” And then it shocked me with: “What do you think about Playgirl?” I was pretty sure this student wasn’t referring to the pornographic magazine, so I played it safe and requested a definition. The response: “A playgirl is someone who texts many boys at the same time.” Oh.

Oh, I see...

Interestingly, my religion doesn’t come up much, as it seems to be largely assumed. The other day, for instance, a teacher leaned over and asked: “Protestant or Catholic?” How to describe my unique blend of pagantaoistnaturegoddessworshipfaith spirituality that is constantly evolving? “Catholic,” I said. It is certainly the religion I am closest to, the only services I’ve ever attended, and the faith that my grandparents follow. It’s not such a far-fetched truth…until I face further questioning. “So, you go to Church every Sunday?”, a student asked me. I looked at her, unable to lie, or to explain to someone who goes to the mosque 35 times every week, that I go to church maybe once a year. I said “No…I’m a bad Catholic.” And that’s the final statement I suppose, until I revise it. I must revise it, actually, because I think that might be why I am here, but it’s exhausting, frustrating, and frightening to define myself in this setting.

Some of the rules of Islam

Not just my religion, but most aspects of myself. How to be me is a delicate question in a culture where I’m stripped of most of what defines me, and much of that is considered weird at best, and Haram at worst. Add in the language barrier, my restrictions as a teacher,

my chameleon-like tendencies,

This is a gecko, but you get the point

and the pre-existing assumptions about Americans that have been projected on to me, and I think I just lost my identity.

Where's Waldo?

I’ve decided to combat this in a variety of ways.
First, and foremost, I am actively trying to be quirky, weird, silly, and strange. Everyday, I laugh a lot, and make funnyfaces. I make crazy noises during mural club and sing invented songs in the classroom. It is working well, I feel like I’m having real human interactions. Because everyone, deep down, knows how to play and it is good for the soul and transcends the limitations of the rational mind.

Finally got to wear the marching band hat.

Secondly, I am weaving genuine honesty into what I share with the students. This is a fragile practice.

Finally, I’m initiating political and interesting conversations with those around me. This is a bit shady, because students aren’t supposed to discuss politics, but I feel it is too essential to avoid. Israel is a particularly sensitive issue, along with the Iraq War. Students are generally surprised to hear that I do not like Bush, and shocked that I say negative things about my government. “Love your country, criticize the government,” I told them. Prior to this, my only political conversation occurred during my first week in the country with a random man standing on the sidewalk.
“Where are you from?” he asked me.
“America.”
“I don’t like Bush,” was his reply. “Oh, me neither.” I agreed, thinking we were having a break-through moment.
“But, I love Osama bin Laden,” he added.
“Oh. He is not our president.” I said, for lack of a better comment. I then decided the interaction was over and turned to go.
“You know who else I like?” the man asked. I didn’t know if I wanted to know. “Nicholas Cage,” he said. “He makes my face smile.” And for some reason, I felt a whole lot better.

Updates:

A road trip occurred recently, which allowed me to drive on the left side of the road, run over a traffic cone (a life-long dream of mine), and visit Penang.

A dog...must be in Penang

Penang is ridiculously good, particularly because of its delicious diversity. I racked up several life high-lights on the trip, including witnessing a beauty contest and attending a world music festival which featured a 78 year-old Mexican dancing and playing the fiddle.

Additionally, we freed birds that are maybe trained to be captives. Is it supporting bird captivity to pay for its release?

I'm holding the baby bird and another one molds on a museum wall

According to economics, certainly: no one would put them in cages if it wasn’t a profitable activity.

Don't feed the birds and this is a beach at night

But what about that starfish story…(Man walks down the beach, littered with thousands of beached and dying starfish, and sees a boy throwing them back in, one by one. The man asks the boy: “What are you doing? You can’t possibly make a difference.” The boy throws another back into the sea and replies, “Sure made a difference to that one.”)

This boy is not throwing starfish back into the sea

I like to think my bird will appreciate its freedom, plus I supposedly get a life full of blessings from the act.

The RESPECT mural progresses.

The students really enjoy face painting and general silliness, which adds complex dimensions to the process.

It’s a delicate balance: fostering joy and creativity, while still encouraging paint to coat the wall in an attractive and meaningful fashion.

I want to push and challenge the students, yet trust them to paint what they need to see. Its difficult to wade through these mundane inane insanely clique symbols to find real meanings.

Sometimes I get down. Recently I texted a friend: “I just want everyone to love art and the environment and if not to just sit in a corner and cry.” I like this because it is open to interpretation whether I want the non-art lover to cry, or if that is my 2nd most powerful desire. That’s the beauty and the danger of art, religion, and text messages: they are drastically open to interpretation. The same furtile soil breeds love and fear, peace and war and a multitude of shades in between.