Sunday 27 November 2011

To Hospital

Cholesterol, uric acid, glucose -- these are the reasons that I needed to get blood taken, for my annual health form that my program requires me to complete again this year. I went to a private hospital here, was shown to the lab where I thought I had explained what I needed by pointing to the 15 items on the form.  

The receptionist checked off boxes on a receipt filled with the names of a couple hundred tests, looked up the prices of each, and wrote the price next to the ones she had checked. After adding the individual tests' prices, she wrote the total cost on the top of the page, explaining that I needed to go to the cashier (in another part of the hospital), pay the total, come back and then get the tests done. As I'm walking down the hall to the cashier, I start to total the costs of the individual tests to make sure the sum is correct. And I'm a bit surprised when I see she has checked off the test for syphilis. (What?! Do I look like I have syphilis? Because it certainly is not one of the tests I need done.) That can't be right, I think, then start to look at the names of the other tests. I get to 'stool sample' and turn around fast to run back to the lab.

No one here needs my stool, I explain to the receptionist. She looks at me with either an "are you sure?" look or an "I really don't care what you're saying" look. I'm not sure which. What matters though, is that I was adamant: absolutely no one at this hospital is testing my poop.

After clearing up the mix up, paying, and going back to the lab again, a lab technician calls me in where he is ready to take blood. It's rather uneventful, thankfully, although he has a moment of disbelief when in the midst of our conversation I explain that I don't have a television. I represent 'America,' and am now shattering his image of what that stands for. 'Are you really that poor?' he asks because that must be the first reason he can think of to NOT have a television. I wait before answering, and he quickly apologizes, telling me he was just joking. Good, I think, because I really don't want to have this conversation while you're sticking a sharp object in my arm. Conversation topics to avoid: the relative 'poverty' of Americans, the current fuel shortage, the increasing cost of everything due to the fuel shortage, politics, my lack of interest in soccer, how I don't like nsima...the list goes on. Perhaps silence is best in this moment.

The blood is put into two vials, he leaves and says someone else will be in to do the TB test that I need. I'm a bit perplexed when not one but two men walk into the room. Uh-oh, I think, this can't be a simple TB test. That doesn't take two people. What other test did the receptionist check me off for? They assure me it's the right test, so I ask them why there are two of them. They merely laugh. Which gets me even more worried. (Did I mention how much I hate going to hospitals? And double that for hospitals in countries other than the U.S.) I suddenly think that maybe the way they do the test here is so painful that one of them has to hold me down. Yes, I know that such an active imagination is not helpful in these types of situations.

A few seconds later, much to my shock, I learn why there are two of them. The older gentleman is holding up the needle which he has stuck into a vial; he holds both about an inch away from his eyes. He pulls the plunger down to fill the needle with the antibody while he says to the younger guy, "Okay, now I can't see anything, so you have to tell me when I have the right amount."

Huh? Hey you Mr. Blind Guy who is about to stick a sharp object into my arm, did you have to say that in English?! And, excuse me for being a bit rude here but what the hell do you mean you can't see? At this moment, an image from the book Naked in the Temple of Heaven comes to mind, where the narrator and her friend are in a hospital in rural China in the 1980s where they've gone because one is really ill. A hospital worker is about to give the sick woman an injection when her friend realizes there is rust on the needle. At least I know this needle is new and clean, but as a reflex I fold my arms across my chest and ask the guy directly: "What do you mean, you can't see?" He just chuckles and says that it doesn't matter because the needle can go anywhere on my forearm. Uh...not making me feel any better, dude.

I almost scrap the whole idea of getting the test done that day, but I really don't want to have to come back here again. I can't believe how brave (er...okay, stupid) I am as I unfold my arms and lay my right arm out for a blind man with a needle. And, although I can't say that it didn't hurt, it wasn't that bad, really. And since there's no reddening or swelling around the area now, I'd say that I'm TB-free.




Anticipation

"...is making me late. Is keeping me waiting."

I used to love the J Mascis cover of this song. And, 15 years later, it's back in my head, mutated (lyrics not head) to be: "Procrastination...is making me hate...is keeping me crazy."

Yup, 200 exams graded already and staring down at the last 100. It's brutal. It really IS making me hate, crazy-person style. I'm taking too many breaks in between grading too few exam papers. I'm finding myself scribbling words like, "What?!" or "Huh?" or "This makes no sense!" in big, red letters as I grade. I actually don't have to write anything on their exams except their scores. But I can't control myself. It's as if my students have formed an anti-learning cabal and decided to try to get me to quit my job by pretending to have learned absolutely nothing during the entire year.

Am I exaggerating? I mean, sure I love some hyperbole every now and then (I will admit that just a few weeks ago, I stated that one of my financially successful friends was a 'billionaire' which is quite a leap of, oh, nearly a billion dollars). However, this time, I'm not going off on the deep end of dramatics. Part of the exam, for example, was to measure how well I had taught my students how to integrate quotes into their writing. I gave them a mock essay and three short sources that they had to use to integrate into the mock essay. One very obvious habit of using quotes in any context is to put quotation marks at the start and end of the quote, right? Two very simple marks. Not much. Doesn't even take a lot of ink. Really important, though, in terms of not plagiarizing which is what I spent way too much class time on, in my opinion. However, I assumed that of all the things I taught, integrating quotes -- or at the very least, not plagiarizing -- was the one thing my students were bound to know for their exam. SURPRISE! So many students not only did not cite at all (I think I spent weeks on this) but decided that quotation marks weren't necessary either.  And to be 'lenient' in my grading of this section, I was giving 3 points to students just for using quote marks. I honestly thought that was a give-away. I'm wrong so often...

Now do you see why I'm procrastinating so much? But it's a terrible feeling. The knowledge that I still have 100 exams to grade -- and within an ever-decreasing amount of time -- gnaws at me. It makes everything else I do slightly un-enjoyable. Anyone who has procrastinated knows this. And I'm assuming that means everyone. Some people, I think, are just better at procrastinating than I am. I need to learn from them. Maybe that will end the song in my head too.

"It's making me cray-ay-zy...it's keeping me hay-ay-ting..."

Sunday 13 November 2011

Class begins now

Good morning, starshine! The Earth says, 'hello!'

It's time for the world to start to make more sense. That's right, it's time for Logic Class!

Since this is your first class, we'll start off slowly, with some seemingly simple (yet somehow very tricky!) stuff.

Let's begin with knocking on the door of someone's home. It's Sunday morning around 7 a.m. The front door is closed and visibly locked (with not just one but two padlocks that you can easily see), and the curtains are drawn. You've been told by your boss to go next door and borrow the VERY important Sunday-morning item of a BOWL.  What do you do?

a) Stand in front of the door, frozen like a deer in headlights until the occupant finally opens the curtains getting startled by your creepy, stalker-like stance.

b) Dial-a-friend! Whip out your cell phone and call someone for help, proceeding to talk very loudly directly in front of the front door.

c) Knock loudly on the front door, incessantly for five minutes straight, until the occupant finally trudges to see who would be rude enough to do such a thing at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. 

d) Realize the occupant is probably either still sleeping or just enjoying her early Sunday morning and doesn't want to be disturbed, thus -- and I know this can get complicated here -- the locked door and drawn curtains.

Believe it or not, the correct answer is d. 

Yes, I can see by your puzzled looks that you're just not sure why this would be the right answer.  Let's begin by looking at the situation LOGICALLY. Sunday morning at 7 a.m. Yes, I realize that YOU have been at work for an hour,  cleaning and cooking for the guys that live next door to me, but not all people begin their Sundays at such an early hour. Plus, when their door is locked with the curtains drawn, this usually means the person inside is either still sleeping or doesn't yet want to face the day outside their apartment, even if you know the person is usually awake and up by 5 a.m. most days. 

Are you starting to get it? Closed curtains + locked door = do not disturb. But what if you do make the mistake of knocking on the door in this situation? Well, know that the use of just a few knocks is quite sufficient. You do not need to take it upon yourself to wake up the occupant with continuous loud knocking.  In fact, this is considered rude (I hear your gasps of disbelief, but trust me, it's true).  Unless you are a very close friend or family member or there's an emergency (and, to answer your next question, no there is no such thing as a 'bowl emergency'), usually purposely trying to wake a person on an early Sunday morning to borrow a bowl is considered quite impolite. 

Are you starting to feel overwhelmed? I know it's a lot of information, so we'll stop here for today, but not without homework.

Your assignment is this:
Imagine that you are writing a formal assignment to be handed in to your (female) English instructor, who is the person who will give you a score not only for your assignment but also for the entire semester-long course. On a scale of 1 to 10, how appropriate (1 = not appropriate at all; 10 = completely appropriate) is it to write the following in your assignment:

"Most women are weak in their thinking capability."

Good luck! We'll have fun discussing this tomorrow.

Wednesday 9 November 2011

"Are you busy?"


“Are you busy?”

I don’t know why this question offends me so much. It shouldn’t. It’s kind of polite, taking the time to wonder whether or not I have time to help.  However, as a teacher, unless it is during those glorious times of vacation (I hear a chorus of angels singing ‘hallelujah’ even as I just write that word), the answer is always ‘yes.’

But that’s not really what students are asking when they ask me this question. What they are wondering is if I can stop what I’m doing at that moment and help them with whatever difficulties they’re having. In other words: “Ms. Howland, am I important enough for you to care enough about me at this very moment and stop whatever you’re doing and help me right now?” Again, the answer is inevitably ‘yes.’ Because that’s my job, and I really do like helping students understand how to improve their work. (However, when you accost me in the parking lot in the morning when I’m just arriving on campus, be forewarned that you should wave a slab of chocolate or a freshly brewed cup of coffee under my nose to ease that disgruntled Grumpy dwarf who tends to inhabit my body in the early mornings and will not answer politely otherwise. It’s him, though, not me. I’m a ray of sunshine always.)

 What amazes me, though, is the students who come right before exams and ask me to teach them, for example, ‘how to write an essay.’ Um…well, that’s what half of the semester was spent on, but sure I have five minutes to give you the Cliff Notes version that will not help you in any way whatsoever but will perhaps make each of us feel better: me for not ignoring a student’s request and the student for thinking he did what he could to prepare for the exam. Yea, we’re both completely delusional, but if I constantly thought what I did was meaningless, I’d want to slit my wrists everyday. Okay, okay, I know my penchant for hyperbole can get a bit annoying, but seriously, I do get depressed when I think about how meaningless my job is compared to, say, a health care worker of any kind. So I try not to think that most of my 300 students really could care less about what I teach them. Sigh. (And writing about this now really helps my not thinking about it…just going to find me a dark corner to curl up in now.)

Seriously though, I do wonder what kind of difference I’m making on the world. What am I contributing to that great collective poem that the world is writing as it spins through time and space?  If I weren’t here, wouldn’t another person be doing my job with similar results?  Sure, I’m unique, and maybe I’m the only lecturer these students will ever have who will say, “There’s only love in this room” when I want students to share their work. And maybe I’ll be the only 8:00 a.m. lecturer who will always, without fail, be in the classroom and begin class exactly at 8, week after week, much to the dismay of three-quarters of the students who show up late. And I might be the only lecturer my students will have who gets super excited about anything to do with grammar (as everyone should!). And maybe (due to my complete stupidity?) I’m the only lecturer who will ever dare (read: be stupid) to allow her 300 students – to in fact encourage them, and in some cases require them – to rewrite their essays to improve their work and get more points added to their scores.  (Yup, 300 essays to read and grade. And then to read and grade again. And I sometimes wonder why I’m single? Duh.)

And I know at these times when I’m doubting my contribution and meaningfulness I should stop and remember the times when students have given me those little slivers of sweet compliments, such as “I really appreciate your time” and “As long as I got you [as my teacher], then it doesn’t matter when you leave after that” and “I like your style!” (For the record, he meant teaching style not fashion style, although I’d appreciate either as a compliment.)  I’m assuming my students don’t know how much those compliments mean to me. They are few and far between, but I hold onto them to sustain me through the times when I doubt that I'm making a difference.  

And to me those compliments are like smooth round stones, the ones picked up on the beach, pocketed, forgotten and then found later that night when the cold summer air forces my hands into my pockets. And as I turn the smooth stone around in my hand, I remember not only why I picked it up but also why I came to the beach in the first place, what I was thinking as I watched the ocean lap the sand, as the water turned from blue to gray and finally filled with moonlight.

Saturday 5 November 2011

Bitter Pillow


“It’s a bitter pillow to swallow.”  (This quote brought to you by one of my students in his essay.)

Yes, the very thing we expect to cushion us during our journey of sleep is what chokes us with bitterness.  I think I like this new phrase.

I’m thinking about this now because I have just swallowed pills after being sick for days from the worst food poisoning I’ve ever had. I hate being sick. Well, who doesn’t? But being sick in one of the least developed countries in the world is a bit more frightening than being sick elsewhere. I am lucky, though, that I know doctors here. In fact, the morning after being up all night sick, I called a doctor friend who listened patiently to my symptoms, asked a few questions, then told me what medicine to get and advised me to drink Coke (and then actually hand-delivered three bottles of the soda himself).
 
The good news is that I finally swallowed the right antibiotics, albeit with my last Coke.

I went to get the antibiotics today. Driving here is crazy enough when I’m highly alert, but it gets completely maddening when I’m sick. It was as if I suddenly realized just how risky it is not only to be a pedestrian here but also a driver, a passenger, a bicyclist, a baby on the back of her mother, a chicken or a cow. At one point today (and I was only driving for ten minutes, tops), a woman walked directly into the road -- in the path of my car -- without looking. I honked the horn and slammed on my brakes. She turned and stood in front of my car, in the middle of the lane, and just stared at me, and smiled. (Now, the reality of living in a very poor country is that sometimes slow reaction time or lack of awareness can be due to lack of nutrition or literal starvation. But this woman looked neither malnourished nor starved. Instead, she looked like she was on her way to or from her office job.)

Her smile was puzzling. Was she smiling because she realized that she had been an idiot for a second and didn’t look before crossing the street? (We all know this ‘look both ways’ thing is one of the first rules of Mom as she sends us out into the world as kids.) Or was she smiling because she had almost gotten hit by a white woman who, at that moment, looked quite pissed, shaking her head and swearing. (By the way, I don’t do the swearing bit when I have passengers. And, most of you probably know that I almost never swear ever.  I just release it all when I’m alone in the car, apparently.) I kept swearing but waved her across the street and drove on, wary of what was to befall me on the road next.

But let’s leave the rest of my traffic trials for the moment and move on to the pharmacy where I went to get the needed antibiotic. Now, for the record, I’ve been to this same pharmacy several times, although usually to buy vitamins. However, I also got doxycycline there once (I take doxy as a malaria prophylaxis while I’m here), with no hassle given to me. Today, however, the pharmacist working must have seen me as an opportunity.

I ask for the antibiotic that my doctor friend told me to get. The pharmacist asks me for my prescription. At this point, it should be noted that you don’t need a prescription here for antibiotics. Knowing this (and possibly emboldened by having lived through the past two days of feeling like I was going to die), I laugh at his suggestion. Being even cheekier, I hold my cell phone at him and say, “I’ll call my doctor right now. Do you want to talk to him?” He disappears in the back, comes back with the antibiotics I’d asked for, and hands them to me without saying another word. I’m still wondering if he was looking for me to give him money on the side, to allow me to get the drugs without the ‘necessary’ prescription.

But I don't really care. Because now I’ve got my pills and my pillow, the special one that softens my journey into sleep with its feathers and scent of lavender. And there's absolutely nothing bitter about that.