Our friend and colleague Mr. Lei is acutely aware of the fact that foreign teachers are a goldmine of the English language (if I do say so myself.) In addition to making chapter recordings and reading vocabulary for his classes in the Overseas Nursing department, Jason and I have been writing dialogues so his students can practice talking medically in casual conversation.
The instructions are to work the textbook symptoms and procedures into short, memorable dialogues. Want to learn about bacterial meningitis? Read about how "Friend 1" almost died when he was a kid!
Unit 44: Bacterial Meningitis
A conversation in which one friend tells another about the time he almost died from meningitis.
Friend 1: Hey, want to hear a crazy story? When I was younger, I almost died!
Friend 2: Really, how?
Friend 1: I had bacterial meningitis. It's a potentially fatal disease that can rapidly lead to death. First, I just had a cold. Then, suddenly, I had a really severe headache, drowsiness, delirium, irritability, restlessness, vomiting, and fever.
Friend 2: Oh, that sounds awful!
Friend 1: Yeah, that's not even the worst part. My parents knew something was really wrong when I resisted flexion of my neck, and I started to have convulsions. That's when they took me to the hospital.
Friend 2: You had convulsions? I don't believe you. You're making this up!
Friend 1: No, it's true! I received antibiotics intravenously for rapid effect. Nurses had to work really hard to save me. They kept the room as quiet as possible, put padded side rails on my bed so I didn't hurt myself during convulsions, and helped move my body around so I didn't aspirate on vomit or catch pneumonia.
Friend 2: Wow. I'm really glad you survived.
Friend 1: No kidding. For a while I was monitored for a slow pulse rate, irregular respirations, and increased blood pressure. But I recovered eventually.
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So, it's true that frozen dumplings make up at least 14% of my weekly meal count (yes, I used my GRE-refreshed elementary math skills to figure that out.) Instant oatmeal accounts for a full third of my intake—with various fruits or honey to shake it up each morning. But what do I put into my body the other half of the time?
Last week, my mother informed me, her 23-year-old baby, that all of her "adult children" made corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick's Day. I have to take the exclusion with a grain of salt, because an uncle in his mid-thirties is still considered the baby in my dad's family, despite being by far the largest of ten siblings. His girth is cited whenever I'm indignant about the fact that my parents should, at some point, have to concede that I'm an adult now. Then again, they still file my taxes, answer my mail and pay for my health insurance. What is adulthood, anyway?
Still, this exclusion from the mythical adult-land where people cook real meals daily, combined with a desire to stop eating at restaurants so frequently (thanks in no small part to this story—more details and pictures—about recycling cooking oil from sewers being a common practice), has sparked an interest in cooking more of my own adult-grade meals.
One of the biggest issues I've encountered trying to cook for one is that it's almost never practical for me to have adequate ingredients on hand. If I buy vegetables without a specific recipe in mind for them, they're likely to sit neglected in my refrigerator while I make pb&j or boil a handful of dumplings. Thankfully, it's finally looking like spring up here—if spring is a snow storm followed by a gigantic dust storm followed by wind and rain—so fresh veggies are again on the street mere steps away.
I'm trying to build a repertoire of recipes I can file under "easy" in my mind, so I'm more likely to turn to them than a street vendor when hunger calls. Not surprisingly, the first winner involves a hearty scoop of peanut butter:
Peanut butter noodles – This was so delicious, and because it's an Asian dish, I didn't have to improvise on ingredients I can't find here. Peanut butter, honey, soy sauce, and hot chili paste!
A second dish that went well, and made more than enough to replace restaurant forays this week, is actually a version of a really common dish we ate in India, Aloo Gobi Masala. Fun fact, I learned the Chinese for "cumin" in assembling these ingredients. They call it "little fennel."
My student in India taught me how to make naan, or Indian bread. It was so easy when I cooked with her, but something went terribly wrong when I tried to make it myself yesterday. I ended up wasting most of my flour, making a doughy mess of my kitchen, and cooking something more along the lines of a bland pancake. Another hurdle for me is that mishaps like this make me want to swear off any interaction with a cutting board/rolling pin for a few days. Thankfully, I'll be working through Aloo Gobi leftovers for at least that long.
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Charles Dickens became one of my favorite authors sometime after I read A Tale of Two Cities in high school—this despite the fact that he couldn't create a plausible heroine for anything. I took my amour far enough to read David Copperfield, nearly 1000 pages of impoverished Victorian English glory. I have a new tutoring student whose English name is David. When my most recent tutoring acquisition, an audacious 14-year-old boy, asked me for a unique English name, I drafted a short list of movie and literary character names, and he chose Oliver. This adds a Dickensian twist (pun?) to my days, and makes me smile. Speaking of names, Oliver also has a huge pet mouse named "xiao jing," or "little king." I think it's adorable.
My former student Daisy, who first appeared in my stories as a meek character who seemed to be at the whims of the men in her life, has proven to be an especially strong woman (the anti-implausible Dickensian female!) determined to do something different with her life even as all of her friends and family pressure her to settle. She recently moved to Beijing to find a better job and continue to improve her English. It has improved greatly, but still has a touch of China that makes it musical to read.
Regarding her desire to leave China and pursue anything somewhere else, she sent me this line in an email: "I think it more like a dream than an aim. Life will become boring and hopeless if dream is considered as a luxury. For me, the aim or dreams like a kind of support. I just try my best to let them come true." I think she could have a career as a greeting card writer once she cleans up that grammar.
Lately her friends, like mine, have started to get married, and she's feeling the expectant stares and parental toungue-clicking. Her response to my suggestion that when she moves to America we can go out and find husbands together: "I smiled when you told me we can find our husband in America together, because that moment I felt life can be colorful." Life can be colorful. Write that down.
A friend and fellow Drake journalism grad, Alexa, is currently teaching English through a Fulbright Grant in Indonesia. She recently wrote an incredibly honest blog about the stress of planning the next step after an experience like this—essentially, you think you go abroad to find your calling, to "take a year off" and get it all figured out, but most of our species only end up more confused and with less direction by the end. I've been thinking of saying something really similar, and I invite you to check out what she has to say.
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This is the other piece I wrote for Contact Magazine while in India. It is a short profile of one of the most interesting men I've ever met. This man turned down an opportunity in his youth to study medicine in the U.S., instead choosing to join meager guerilla efforts to force the Chinese army out of Tibet. While the Dalai Lama, and thus the majority of Tibetans who follow him, champions a "Middle Way" policy in which Tibet remains part of China but is a fully functional autonomous region (free to elect their own representatives for deciding on local issues), Lhasang Tsering insists that the world is suffering as long as Tibet is occupied by China:
Lhasang Tsering runs one of the most successful bookshops in Mcleod Ganj. Yet, when he speaks, he keeps one eye trained in the direction of Tibet. An outspoken critic of the Tibetan government-in-exile's Middle Way policy, Tsering uses poetry to express the pain he feels for his homeland and its people, and his unwavering belief that Tibet must be a free, independent nation.
"What you call poems, I call my pain in words," he says. Those words reflect the pain of a lost home, a thwarted freedom struggle, and a feeling that no one is doing enough. On the wall behind his desk at The Bookworm is a plaque declaring, "The world without Tibet is not complete."
Another poster behind him reads, "I have something to live for. I have freedom to fight for." No, Tsering doesn't participate in demonstrations, marches, or hunger strikes. But he sits ready to fight if he is asked. "When freedom was a goal, I led the demonstrations. Now, I'm not interested in taking part in rituals," he says.
Tsering, the former president of the Tibetan Youth Congress, left government service because he disagreed with official policies. He sold his watch, a nice pair of shoes he received as a gift, and most of his clothing in order to purchase books for his first small store. "Books were the only things I knew and loved," he explains. Well-versed in what it takes to run a successful business, he says a business-oriented attitude is one of the flaws in the current negotiations with China.
"The matter of independence for Tibet is not like a game, or a business. Unlike this bookshop, which is a business where I try to make money, and I change something if I'm not, the Tibet issue should not be about winning and losing. In my humble view, winning and losing are important, but they are second to right and wrong. Always."
As he speaks he keeps his eyes on Tibet. It may be on the other side of the mountain, but he knows exactly which way home is.
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In the exiled Tibetan community, where I spent most of my winter vacation, March 10th is National Uprising Day - a day when Tibetans execute hunger strikes, protests, and rallies to keep the cause of equality in Tibet alive. I wrote the following story for a local publication in Dharamsala before we left.
Because the piece was written for Tibetans, it doesn't delve into a lot of the history necessary to fully understand the day. You may remember (although, to be honest, I certainly didn't) that there were massive uprisings in Tibet in 2008, when many Tibetans were killed or imprisoned. If you were alive in 1959, you might remember the scandal surrounding the teen-aged Dalai Lama's covert escape from Tibet into India in March of that month.
As long as the Chinese government continues to oppress traditional Tibetan culture, which is fundamentally different from Han Chinese culture, the Tibetan community will observe March 10 as a day of mourning the oppression and impending loss of their culture. This is the little bit that I learned about the day from being in Dharamsala (Originally published in Contact Magazine, March 2010 Issue):
For the exiled Tibetan community, National Uprising Day isn't about going hungry, picketing the Chinese embassy, or shouting slogans in the streets of Dharamsala. While all of these things will happen on 10 March, the day remains truly focused on the plight of the majority of Tibetans who remain in Tibet.
"Our brothers and sisters have suffered for speaking their minds and exercising their basic human rights. They have to pay a high price for basic freedoms," says Tashi Choephel, a researcher at the Tibetan Center for Human Rights and Democracy. This year marks the two-year anniversary of the March 2008 uprising in Tibet, which was the largest and most widespread since the Dalai Lama went into exile in 1959.
For those in exile, the events of March 2008 sent a powerful message that Tibetans continue to believe in and to fight for their rights in the region. "The sense of identity for exiled Tibetans became stronger [after the uprising]. There was unity among the exiled community like never before," Choephel says. He finds the continued resistance encouraging, and believes the issue will be solved in time. "I would tell Tibetans inside Tibet not to give up hope, because there is a light at the end of the tunnel. They're an example to Tibetan people outside Tibet to continue to fight for the cause."
According to TCHRD's 2009 Annual Report on the Human Rights Situation in Tibet, fast track courts in 2009 issued the death penalty to five Tibetans for their participation in the spring 2008 protests. The governmental organization states that torture is endemic in Chinese-administered prisons and detention centers. Several cases of torture and inhuman treatment have been reported since the protests, when the TCHRD estimates that around 6,500 Tibetans were arrested.
China refuses to admit international regulatory bodies to inspect its prisons. The UN High Commissioner for Human Rights was denied access to Tibet after March 2008, and the International committee of the Red Cross, which is mandated to visit detention facilities and check on the wellbeing of prisoners worldwide, isn't allowed in, either. A joint statement by six United Nations Special Procedures mandate holders calling for an increased flow of information in and out of Tibet continues to be ignored.
Although the Chinese authorities deny the use of extreme force upon Tibetan demonstrators, the reality is that they continue to oppress both the religious and lay communities who protest peacefully. "Earlier, activists and political prisoners were mostly monks and nuns, but in 2008 a large number of civilians were arrested, sentenced, even given the death sentence for peaceful protests," says Choephel.
Always focused on the reality of the situation inside Tibet, those in exile will use 10 March as a day to advance the Tibetan cause and to send a message to their countrymen who remain oppressed. "As Tibetans outside Tibet, we have a moral responsibility to speak out, because we have the facilities to reach the world with our message. We need to let the Tibetans inside Tibet know that we still have a desire to go back," says Sonam Dorjee, Dharamsala regional president of the Tibetan Youth Congress.
The 40-year-old TYC, the largest and most active exiled Tibetan NGO, will facilitate protests in March not as a ritual of habit, but as a promise to their fellow Tibetans who continue to resist. "The issue is still alive because of the Tibetans inside Tibet. The Chinese failed to invade the hearts of the Tibetan people. Even though they know they're in danger, they speak out," Dorjee says.
Dorjee, who hasn't missed a 10 March protest since he was 10 years old, when he sneaked onto a bus with his father to attend a march, experienced the most memorable moment of his life when the Dalai Lama greeted him during a 10 March hunger strike in Mcleod Ganj. Although these experiences are personally gratifying, he reiterates the importance for exiles of remembering those inside Tibet when they protest. His father is missing half of a thumb, shot off by a Chinese border guard when he fled to Tibet. "To me, this has always been a reminder that we have a responsibility to the people inside Tibet to remember their struggles," Dorjee says.
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It was no accident that we went straight to Mcleod Ganj and stayed put for five weeks. Transportation in India is more terrifying by far than its Chinese counterpart. And that's saying something. The day we traveled to Agra, we received a crash course in all the things we'd missed out on thus far. The inside of our sleeper car on the train looked a lot like my dad's old grey van—it even had huge, dusty fans attached to the ceiling, maybe 6 inches from our bunks, so I was able to share with Jason the story of how my sisters and I always got our hair caught in the van's rotating fans on long road trips. Throughout the 6-hour trip, children hopped on to try to sell things, or to sing songs for money.
In Agra, we had to negotiate with rickshaw after rickshaw to get to the bus station. Then, successfully not getting ripped off too badly, realizing we weren't at the correct station, we had to negotiate all over again. Some guy tried to push an offer to drive us there in his private car for nearly $80, to which I finally responded, exasperated, "Look, I know you see our white skin and think we're rich, but I honestly do not even have that much money in my wallet right now." We arrived at a bug-infested hotel near the Taj Mahal around 11 p.m., crashed until 5, and then rose to see the Taj before the crowds.
There are gardens to walk through all around the main mausoleum, but I hated to turn my back on the shining mass of marble in the perfect, post-thunderstorm morning light. As the sky turned from purple to crisp, clear blue, I wanted to walk backward away from it to lock it in my memory. I worry that my brain will file this perfect image as something it saw in a book, and the memory of really standing there in awe of the whole thing will fade.
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Lately, I'm quadruple-tasking, studying for the GRE with one hand, scrolling through job listings (dismal) with the other, thinking with one part of my brain about India, while the other portion focuses on July, when, as of now, my life is slated to drop off into the unknown.
When we left Mcleod Ganj—yes, two whole weeks ago, how's this for punctual? Don't tell my potential employers—we hadn't used any form of machinated transportation in nearly five weeks. The seven-hour bus ride was mostly uneventful. We only hit one government truck full of school children.
In Amritsar, a large, dusty city near the Pakistani border, we spent two nights in pilgrims' quarters beside the Golden Temple, the Mecca or Vatican of the Sikh religion. Just about every day since we left I've been trying to think of a way to articulate that experience accurately.
Entering the clamoring temple grounds, the overwhelming din of metal on metal to my right sounded like an exuberant rendition of Stomp. After choosing our "bed," or raised board with one pillow which we were to share in the overcrowded foreigners' section of the free hostel, we took off our shoes (not allowed on the temple's sacred marble walkways), covered our heads (a mandatory sign of respect), and ventured across to find out what the tin clamoring was really all about.
Sikhism is an astoundingly generous faith, born partially out of a movement to do away with Hinduism's caste system. Just as everyone of any station can sleep in the free hostel, everyone who visits the temple is invited to dine in the massive, sacred dining hall that precedes the temple. Rolling up our jeans to keep them out of the sacred mush of dal and curry constantly being mopped off the marble floor, we walked in, washed our hands, received huge metal plates, a spoon, and a bowl for water. Up a set of stairs, the steady but orderly flow of people take seats on the floor in line after line after line.
Volunteers come by one by one: First, chapatti (Indian bread), then ladles full of dal, rice pudding, and some sort of aloo (potato dish) or paneer (cheese curd dish). The food splatters in every direction, especially if you aren't holding your spoon when it gets dumped on. After the initial adjustment to eating food thrown at you from above while you sit bewildered on the floor, I have to say that this is one of the coolest cultural experiences I've had. I say that even though one night the clean-up crew sent food-scrap-spray from the mop over what remained of my food, and an Indian friend we'd met saw me cringe and feign fullness. "It's holy food," he told me with a straight face, "you have to eat it all." And I did.
After cleansing their bare feet, pilgrims walk into the temple. The temple itself is actually rather small, with marble walls and magnificently maintained gold plaiting that reflects in a large mote surrounding it. Visitors walk around the holy pond, pausing at certain sacred monuments, washing themselves in the water and generally being clamorous—a Sikh we met in Mcleod Ganj told us Sikhs are some of the loudest people in the world, and she's right. Over loudspeakers, setting the mood and giving the din an unmistakable air of worship, live Sikh hymns are played from inside the temple.
There are so many small things going on inside the temple grounds. First, people were staring at us. A lot. As usual. More than once, mothers pushed their children in front of me and told them to say "hello" and shake my hand. One guy asked us to take pictures with him… then asked us to email the pictures, ostensibly so he could use them to pretend he knew some Americans when he tried to immigrate, which he then asked us how to do. "I was born in America, sir, I really don't know the process…"
The most fascinating part for me, again aware of the chaste Catholic boxes I put things into, was a portion of the water designated for nearly naked bathing (for men only, of course) in the holy water. All the hair they've ever grown (Sikhs don't cut their hair, shave, or shape their eyebrows. They believe all of your hair was given to you by God and is therefore a gift you should not mess with) remains wrapped up in a turban, while they strip down, hand their clothes to compliant wives or children, and go for a dip with their friends. I found myself wide-eyed during our first walk past. Thereafter, I tried to keep my eyes glued to my bare feet on the marble, afraid of seeing a towel slip as they changed in the open back into dry clothes.
I made friends with three young Sikh girls visiting the temple on their weekend holiday. They befriended me because I sat down, exhausted after all of our traveling followed by trying to sleep on half of a board with half of a pillow—Sikhs must not sleep, because the noise doesn't diminish at all, 4 p.m. and 4 a.m. share the same decibel. Anyway, the girls approached me because I sat in the universal position of misery, knees pulled to chest and my head resting on them. "Are you sad?" was their introduction.
The three cousins were really eager to tell me about the customs that affect their life. The oldest was a little bit younger than me, in her second year studying electronics at university. The younger two were still in high school. They were amazed that I was alone, that my parents weren't worried about me—I tried to explain that they probably were, but there's not much they can do. This conversation quickly landed on the topic of arranged marriages, which all three will probably have, even though the oldest has a boyfriend she isn't telling her parents about.
"It's very frustrating, but our parents just worry about us, and want to make sure we end up with someone who will take care of us," the oldest explained to me. "Well, maybe when you have daughters you can give them more freedom," I suggested hopefully (or dumbly?) "No, we'll probably be worried then, too!" At this comment the youngest shook her head vigorously. Not her. She looks with disdain at her strikingly orange sari when I express how jealous I am of their beautiful clothing. This 14-year-old, like her counterparts all over the world, doesn't like wearing what her parents want her to wear. The spark in her eye says she'd give anything for a pair of tight jeans and a "love marriage," as they qualify them.
(I had serious sari-envy at the temple. It may have been the fact that I was—still—wearing my jeans with increasingly large holes in the side, and a 2006 Drake Relays hoodie that saw its better days… in 2006.)
