Trivia Time

So you've got a BA. Maybe even a postgraduate degree. Years of schooling, in many subjects, most of which you don't use in daily life. What do you do with all this knowledge floating around your brain?
Well, if you're at all like me, you do crossword puzzles, you listen to the Puzzle Master Presents with Will Shortz every Sunday on Weekend Edition and the Car Talk puzzler on Saturdays, and Wait Wait Don't Tell Me if you're also a news junkie, or Says You! when you want to realize how little you actually know. I think one of the ultimate signs of irredeemable geekdom is not only Carl Kassel's voice on your answering machine, but being excited about it. (And if it wasn't a hugely expensive long-distance call for me, and I actually knew how to access my voice mail, I would try every week. I mean, Carl Kassel.)
You probably also love Trivial Pursuit. And not the stupid versions they've been coming out with for the past few years, that are almost entirely about TV shows and pop stars and Brangelina. No, you love the original editions, Genus I, the great general knowledge games. But thank god for the Internet. I've found plenty of sites with trivia games and assorted quizzes, and I love them. Many are poorly designed, or don't have enough questions to warrant return visits, but I just found a great one for those who really want to test themselves. It's called Quick Quiz, and it's a tough one. Five questions, on any topic, and you have to get them all right to post a message on the Glory Wall. Why do you want to post a message on the Glory Wall? Well, you probably don't, but it's frustrating when you can't because you didn't know who wrote an 19th century French absurdist play. And when you do, finally, get all five correct, it justifes all that random liberal arts knowledge floating around your brain. I actually was able to figure out a geometry question about parallelograms, and I really never thought I'd use that info again. So check it out if you have some spare time, though you should be careful: each quiz only takes a minute, but you may find that posting a Glory Wall message becomes much more important than doing actual work.

Under Investigation

Ok, I'm a good liberal, certainly no supporter of Bush and his cronies, but I must confess to a certain sympathy for him and his buddies during the various scandals that have been going on. Scooter Libby, Alberto Gonzales, Harriet Myers, et al, are currently or recently under investigation/on trial for assorted misdeeds. I won't rehash it all, either you know about it or not, the important thing here is the investigation itself. How it makes you feel, the effect it has on your life.
I'm a good teacher. I know this, I feel this viscerally and I can measure it in the rapport and relationship I have with my students. Teaching English as a foreign language is a bit different from teaching math, say, or history: many aspects are the same, but the goal is different. My primary job is to get people to speak, to help them gain confidence, and learn how to communicate in their own way. The tests don't really matter, and honestly, it's almost entirely irrelevant whether they can identify the past perfect continuous in a non-defining relative clause. So I don't worry about that. Can they communicate, can they use whatever English they have to express themselves, and how confident are they when they do it? Those are the questions I ask, and by that measure, I know I've made progress.
But and so. Someone complained. I don't know who, though I've got a pretty good idea, I don't know the specific nature of the complaint, though the general sense I've been told was "boring", and I don't know if it was me specifically or my co-teacher or the course in general, which I refuse to take responsibility for since I don't choose the books, nor am I the one pressuring the teachers to adhere to the material, finish the material, and make terminally boring lessons entertaining. But the complaint was made and we are under investigation.
In typically underhanded fashion, Profi and my manager have yet to contact me about this. I learned about it first when the secretary said I had to give a questionnaire to my students. It's in Polish, so I asked what it was about. They told me it was about Profi's service in general. Having learned long ago not to trust them, I had it translated. 11 questions, all about me specifically.
Now, responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Not a single one has come back with more than one negative response of any kind, and 14 out of 15 are entirely positive. But for several days I felt really shitty. I questioned everything I'd done in the last year or so, wondering what had happened, doubting my own judgment and abilities, trying to think of what I could've/should've done differently. And ultimately, I realized, nothing. This whole thing is an overreaction on my manager's part, especially considering that Profi apparently has been hemorrhaging students for the last couple years, largely due to mismanagement. Yet, having done nothing wrong, I felt guilty and insecure. It's a distressing feeling and I'm sure it's magnified a great deal when you have to go before a hostile congressional committee, that, regardless of the truth, wants to shed some blood. So, Al, Harriet, Scooter, I'm sorry about all this, I do sympathize, can't do much from here for you, but, wait a minute, there's some fellas in Guantanamo who might understand, why don't you give them a call?

BookCrossing

I don't know how many of you read PostSecret every week, but I wait anxiously every Sunday for the new posts. If you do visit regularly, you're probably familiar with the White Hat People, inspired by a secret 5 or 6 months ago. People who, for one reason or another, go to the movies alone, and wear white hats (or headbands, bandanas, scarves, etc.) as a way to recognize and perhaps meet each other. So far, it doesn't seem that many people have actually connected this way, but it's a great idea and I've been following the spread of it around the world. Fascinating example of the Internet bringing us together, instead of isolating us, as so many pundits keep saying.
But this week on PostSecret was a link to this site, BookCrossing, and I love this even more than the White Hat People. It's very simple: take a book from your shelves (and I know you have lots) that you'd like to share and/or don't need or want. Register it on the site, write an ID number inside the cover, and leave it in a public place for someone else to find. Their stated goal is to make the whole world a library, which is just a beautiful idea/image. I don't know how well it could work for me here in Poland, but I've spent enough time in hostels poking through their book exchanges to know about the magic of finding a new author or book by accident, or leaving a great book for someone else and imagining where it ends up, how it's received. And with this site, you can check. It's so simple, so easy, I hope everyone tries it.

Stuff

The textbooks I use in my classes have all kinds of odd articles in them, adapted and used as a focus for different language skills. My class of kids (12-14) uses a text called Energy 4, and it's largely a desperate and woefully unsuccessful attempt at hipness. I want to write and tell them how futile that is: by the time the book is published and enters the classroom, all the songs and celebrities that they use have become old and passe, a process that happens within months, and their appearance in the book only incites disdain and boredom. A JLo song that was popular two years ago was greeted with groans and eye-rolling by my students, so why even try?
Anyway, we had a unit on everyday objects. Things in your home, etc. Language focus on describing things, shapes, sizes, colors, textures, and so on. And they had an article about a performance artist in London who destroyed everything he owned, books, clothes, furniture, appliances, everything. His purpose was to make people think about their possessions and the value they place upon them, the materialistic nature of our culture, and other arty questions.
I've been thinking about possessions and their value quite a bit since Katrina. I didn't lose everything, as many others did, and I didn't have much to begin with, largely by choice. I lost a lot of clothes that I didn't wear often, furniture that was either cheap or handed down/along, books, few of which had more than sentimental value. And of what I salvaged, most of it is stored in scattered places far from me (Mom, Kristin, I haven't forgotten, I just don't know what to do about it yet.)
I like it now. I like having a suitcase of clothes and my laptop be all I have to worry about. I've had to buy some things since I arrived, since my current apartment was only sparsely furnished, without dishes or bedding, but nothing I couldn't walk away from easily. I enjoy that feeling, light, unburdened. I miss my books, and occasionally I get tired of wearing the same clothes for the last year and a half, but those are momentary feelings and I don't dwell on them. Now, I'm not suggesting that Katrina was actually a blessing for a million Americans, relieving them of the weight of their possessions. Beyond TVs and stereos, many families lost their history, in the form of pictures and heirlooms, homes that had been theirs for generations, their place and identity in the world, networks of friends and relatives that can never be reconstructed. I listen to the NPR stories and read NOLA.com and I still cry for what was lost. But it's also true that such an event forces an evaluation of what is important, what you actually need. And it isn't the TV or stereo, or a couch or bed, or even books (though it's a poor life without them). I know this is where a grand revelation should be, the meaning of life and whatnot, "What I Learned", blah, blah, blah. I don't have one. Just that I know for sure now, it's not the stuff. The stuff is clutter, extra baggage, dead weight. It's very similar to the time when I first shaved my head. I had all this hair, and it was nice, and other people liked it, and it said something about me and I liked what it said. It had taken so long to grow, so much time and effort in its care and upkeep, I was nervous about losing that. But I did it and the only feelings I had afterward were those of freedom and relief. The old writing axiom of "Less is more" seems appropriate here, too.
None of this did I attempt to tell my kids. Too much eye-rolling. They're good kids though, smart, energetic, not too troublesome. We usually have a good time together. Some of them call me "Master Matt" and I get a kick out of that; it's sarcastic, but good-natured. And teaching them is something I can keep, as memory, that can't be blown or washed away, or stolen or broken, that's light and portable, and leaves plenty of room in my suitcase for a Hawaiian shirt or two.

Don't say it, don't even think it

On the way home from Lwow, after taking two Ukrainian mini-buses, passing through two border posts, a Polish mini-bus, and then a train, for a combined total of nearly 10 hours of travel without food or water since we hadn't stocked up before leaving and were then in a constant rush to make the next connection, Patrick and I were 15 minutes from Katowice and our last leg to Sosnowiec by yet a fourth bus, when he turned to me and said, "Well, we finally made it."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Why?" I asked. "Why would you say such a thing?" Desperately, I looked around the metal and glass train compartment for some wood to knock on, but had to resort to my head. "We're 15 minutes from Katowice, which isn't even home. On a Polish train. Why would you tempt fate like that?"
Turns out that Patrick doesn't share my superstitions and he just laughed the whole thing off. He felt justified, I'm sure, when we arrived without incident, although he's too nice of a guy to rub it in. Nevertheless, a few days ago I wrote about the beautiful spring weather we had had, and I've been putting an optimistic spin on the successive days of cold, drizzly rain we've had since then: "But it's a spring rain!" Basically irritating the heck out of my friends, coworkers, and students, I'm sure. And lo, I woke this morning to find an inch of wet, miserable, slushy snow cooling my spring fever.
Now, I know that many people will argue that there can't possibly be a causal connection between my blog and conversations, and the weather. That thinking that implies delusion, solipsism, and egotism. And these people can rightfully point out the universe probably has much more important things to concern itself with than mocking me. That part of me that is logical and reasonable agrees with these people. But another, baser part of me knows this snow is personal; though likely it fell for a multitude of reasons, most of them meteorological in nature, at least in small part it's a big, wet, white laugh in my face.

Spring

We had a couple days this week of glorious sunshine and warm temperatures. The scrawny tree in the courtyard behind Profi put out some buds, tipped with that new green peculiar to spring growth. I saw the year's first pair of shorts being worn. Strolls of mothers were out with their children (I decided we needed a collective noun for groups of parents pushing baby carriages, hence "strolls". I encourage everyone to begin using it), gossiping and laughing. I took the lining out of my coat, stripping it down for a new season. The air held that wonderful smell of optimism and possibility you get in the spring, almost (but not quite, what can you do?) overpowering the coal smoke. It seemed everyone with a dog was out prowling the streets and parks, and high, happy tails waved everywhere you looked.
It didn't last; the temp dropped on Thursday, got some overcast again, but the corner has been turned. I for one, am imbued with a new sense of purpose and potential, and refuse to let the clouds dampen that. Winter isn't my season, and I'm glad to see it's backside.
Now, if I could only watch the NCAA tournament . . .

Kiosks

One thing that is an endless source of amazement is the kiosk. They're everywhere, at least one to a block, sometimes two or three. A major street could have a row of kiosks 5 or 6 long, on each side, often centered at a bus stop. An average size is approximately 6' wide x 5' deep x 7' high. Not very big. Little shacks, really. But you can buy almost anything there. What follows is a partial list of what I've seen in kiosks.
Cigarettes (up to 50 brands/styles); magazines and newspapers (some kiosks seem to specialize in this, having perhaps hundreds of titles on racks outside, but most have at least 20-30 titles); candy bars, breath mints, gum, assorted flavors; bottled water (gazowany and niegazowany, often 5 or 6 brands in 2-3 sizes); sodas (a similar selection as the water); juice; nuts; chips (not as many choices as your average 7-11, but who needs that anyway?); condoms; playing cards; phone cards (lots of providers here, the outside of a kiosk is often festooned with their various signs, stickers, and symbols); lip balm; lipstick; compacts; eye shadow; nail polish; nail clippers; emery boards; cotton pads; curlers; hairbrushes and combs; feminine hygiene products (haven't checked that selection); suntan lotion; hand lotion; toothbrushes and toothpaste; laundry detergent; fabric softener; dish soap; hand soap; shampoo; conditioner; household cleaners; sponges; hairbrushes; hair clips and hair bands; q-tips; tape; pens; pencils; erasers; white-out (liquid and that on-a-tape-like-roll kind, don't know what you call that); perfume and cologne; shaving cream and razors; matches; lighters; bus tickets; tram tickets; batteries (assorted sizes); makeup mirrors; lightbulbs; toilet paper (by the roll, usually); soup packets (very big here); garbage bags; dvds; toys (cars, trucks, squirt guns, sometimes a doll or two); cough drops; painkillers; cold medicines; antacids; band-aids; postcards (mostly in the big cities, not many tourists come through Sosnowiec).
This is by no means an exhaustive list. There are variations in stock from kiosk to kiosk; what they all have in common is this astonishing array of goods available virtually anywhere. At whatever point in your day that you remember you need whatever, there will be a kiosk close by, and chances are just astoundingly good that this tiny little hut will have it. Whether you can ask for it or not is an entirely different question, but it's an enormously comforting thought. Such a contrast from home, where you have miles and miles of residential neighborhoods, and if you just need a rubber band or paperclip or whatever you have to get in the car and drive to a superstore where you have to buy 20,000 of them. You want to know why I like it here? That's a big reason. In five minutes, without a car, I can get almost anything I need. How many people do you know who can say that?

Poczta Polska

Today I went to the post office. It's very convenient, ground floor of my building. This is also where I go to pay my gas and electric bills and if I needed to, purchase some fashion magazines, devotional cards and candles and assorted sundries. I had to send my Deklaracja for ZUS (health insurance, one of the many things I now have to deal with myself now that I am my own company; I keep asking how this makes things easier and have yet to get a good answer), and it had to be sent by registered mail. What that means is filling out a (blessedly) small form with my address and the address of the recipient, handing that over with the envelope, and receiving my inevitable stamp on the form for my records. But I had been led astray by the secretary at Profi: through a miscommunication, I had switched the addresses, put mine in the recipient box and vice versa. Not a big deal, but it entailed a discussion in Polish with the kindly gray-haired woman behind the counter, and that was painful on both sides. I was also acutely aware of the 6 people lined up behind me waiting while she explained to me how to fill out a form that's about as simple and straightforward as you'll ever get, especially in Poland. There wasn't any particular animosity, more of a generalized atmosphere of impatience. Flustered, I finally managed to fill it out correctly, and although numbers are what I understand best, I was completely unable to understand how much she said it was. Slowly, and still kindly (we've done this before, she and I) she repeated it several times until I succeeded in counting out the correct amount.
The important realization I came to here, was a better understanding of the immigrant experience, anywhere I guess, but especially in America. I've heard so many times people make derogatory remarks about recent immigrants, and much of it revolves around their language skills. Native speakers of English, they express frustration, impatience and condescension to and about those who are learning it. And I understand that too, having worked in customer service in places with a lot of tourist traffic: ordering a coffee becomes an ordeal that you'd rather not have to go through, you're just trying to make it to the end of your shift as painlessly as possible and trying to explain what a frappuccino is to someone who doesn't know the word for "ice" is a real pain in the ass.
What I understand now though, is how it feels on the other side. I've traveled a lot, and my ignorance of whatever the local language was in whatever country I was in never really bothered me. I was just passing through and usually in places frequented by other tourists, so English was often spoken and transactions were largely about food and lodging and travel. But living here, I have to do so many more things, things I need help with, or when help is unavailable, on my own. Like going to the post office. And I'm 32, college-educated, a teacher, and when, as today, I have trouble performing basic, simple tasks, I feel like a 5 year-old kid who's been dropped on his head too many times. Ignorant and stupid. A check-out clerk at a store wanted to double-bag my groceries and asked me to lift them so she could get the second one around the first: "Can you lift that, please?" had to be mimed to me. A guy from the electric company showed up at my door the other day, and ended up yelling at me; all I understood was "new contract", but nothing else. Did I have a new contract? Did I need a new contract? Did someone else have a new contract? Who knew? I sure didn't.
My point is this: America is a nation of immigrants, always has been, hopefully always will be. I believe that to be a good thing, a large part of our strength, the source of our innovation and drive. But there are so many people who look down on those who arrived after them, who don't understand, within a generation or two, why the recent ones can't get it together. Why they can't fit in, why they can't do simple things the rest of us take for granted. Conveniently forgetting that their parents or their grandparents were just like that when they came, confused by systems no one explains to them, where going to the store or the post office is a major challenge, where everyone else seems in possession of a secret power that you just don't have.
The daily embarrassment you deal with just to accomplish the basic errands and chores of living, the self-consciousness every time you speak, knowing it sounds as loud and jarring as a trumpet blast at a violin recital.
It's not easy. Which is why I think more Americans should go live somewhere else for a year, to get that experience, that we don't forget our immigrant roots, and to gain some compassion and patience for those newly arrived. We're trying, we're learning, and that's all anyone should ask.

Why do my q-tips have an expiration date?

I've been wondering about this for awhile. I have this box of q-tips, Touch of Charm is the brand, made in Poland but must be an international company since everything on the label is in English. It sits on my little shelf, under the bathroom mirror, above the sink. There isn't much on the shelf, so this box is what I look at while shaving or brushing my teeth and a couple weeks ago I noticed that it had an expiration date on the side. Apparently, these cotton swabs will no longer be good after September 2009. I'm not worried, mind you, I love cleaning my ears and this box will be empty soon. But I can't help wondering, what happens after 9/09? It's not like these are sterile swabs, there are no active ingredients that could lose potency, I doubt that they become poisonous or dangerous in any way. Yet, somebody, somewhere, felt it was important to print this date on the side.
There's a reason behind it and I'm curious. It's the same curiousity I had upon finding the warranty for a new stainless steel pump at Starbucks once. It said, "Use of this product with sauerkraut invalidates this warranty." Why? What could possibly prompt the inclusion of this statement? Or the warning signs on those cloth towels in restrooms, the kind that you pull down and it rolls back up into the case. Most of them have this picture of someone choking with the towel loop around their neck. Companies don't put warnings on for fun, something, some event inspired it. People just don't use common sense.
These things seem silly. You just can't imagine why they are necessary. But then I think, what if someone had put a label like that on Iraq? "Warning: Invasion may cause death; suffering; sectarian violence; civil war; loss of infrastructure, faith in government; erosion of civil liberties. May also increase jingoistic rhetoric, international tensions and religious fanaticism, regardless of belief." It's like the bit on a coffee cup: everyone knows its hot and you shouldn't spill it on yourself, but there's always one asshole who needs it spelled out.
But I am going to save a q-tip for a couple years, just to see what happens.

Hope

Michael Franti and Spearhead are great for restoring optimism. There's some fucked up shit in this world and when it all starts to get you down, it's important to have something that can pull you back up. Hope. Belief that things will get better, that there's still something to fight for, that humanity may not be perfect, but possibly perfectable. That it's something worth trying for.
I'm thinking about this tonight, not for myself, but about a friend here in a difficult, untenable situation. I can't reveal details, I've made promises, but there are misunderstandings involved, questions of responsibility and duty, to self and others, complicated and convoluted. And in microcosm, it seems somehow representative of many other problems in the world. Trust broken, boundary issues, who blinks first, lost in translation, inability to empathize or see another's perspective. A desire for blame.
I've also been paying attention to the Democratic primary race, early and vicious as it looks to be. And I know I won't hear it from the Republicans, but I'd sort of hoped at least one Dem might speak out, but no. The issue, the perspective I want to hear from someone in my country, someone trying to change things, change thinking, is why we were attacked on 9/11, and why there are legitimate, non-fanatic reasons that so much of the world resents the US. I just believe that it's our self-righteousness as a nation that won't allow us to discuss in any but the most simplistic and ludicrous terms the reasons for this war (They hate our way of life; They are opposed to freedom, etc.) and it stifles any real discussion of root causes that might actually change things. Like the offensiveness of our bases in their countries, our unflinching support of Israeli atrocities, our endless thirst for energy and oil to fuel our ridiculous SUVs and trucks, or any of thousands small and large slights we've inflicted in our arrogance over the years. These same blindnesses play out in individual relationships all the time, and it can be cause for despair: if two people can't work it out, can't understand each other well enough to reach peace and love, then what hope do nations and conglomerates of nations and corporations have of doing that?
Which is when I double-click Michael Franti. Sometimes Cake, sometimes Tom Waits. But it's Franti who sings about these issues, and sings without despair. Anger, yes; passion, absolutely. But also hope. That there's a way out. With a belief that people are at bottom the same: that the deaths of 500,000 Iraqis are as important as the deaths of 3,000 Americans. That we can understand that one day. Hope. Someone once called it the most exquisite torture ever devised. But it's all we've got some days.
So, to my friend: hold on to hope. Events may not turn out the way we want, and rarely in the manner we expect. The important thing is trying to understand, working for the best outcome, and hoping for the same in return. Because if you don't believe in understanding, if the situation is reduced to simplistic terms, us vs. them, my way or the highway, you're with us or you're against us, then hope is killed. And that's the greatest tragedy.