A New Teaching Adventure, Stateside

Oh hey there! Long time no see!

As you probably know, I've been accepted into JVC since my last post, "graduated" from Seattle U, and am now teaching at Paschal Sherman Indian School on the Colville Indian Reservation just outside of Omak, WA. I am teaching 5th and 6th graders in a 7th grade level reading class every day and grades K, 1, 2, 5, 7, and 9 in a Catechism/Reflections class throughout the week. I've been here about a month and am settling pretty well. Sorry, it's taken so long to post but it's been a long month. So far, I have merely been affirmed in my desire to work in the field of Indigenous/PostColonial education in some way. That's not to say that it hasn't been hard, it's been rough. The kids often come from rough backgrounds (like Belize), and know that the classes I'm teaching are mostly bullshit (kind of like Belize) and that I am mostly full of shit (right on the money). But, I feel like I'm starting to get to know the school and the kids and the cultural divides are not nearly as wide. I think it's going to be a great year. And I have a lot more confidence in myself teaching after the last PostColonial excursion, so I feel like I can at least fake my way through it.

Ironically, the slightness of the cultural divides has been fascinating, especially in watching my room mates. It's funny because I've mostly been in my element (though homesick for Seattle a bit), while they're in a whole different universe.

Julia and Jean

Jeana is from New Jersey and Julia is from New York. I'm pretty sure that Julia is convinced that all of Washington is like scrub-brush Omak. The town of Omak itself is pretty "Cowboys and Indians", with half the town being on the Reservation and half off. The first day we arrived was the weekend of the World Famous Omak Stampede and Suicide Race. And thus I experienced my first rodeo. I could go on for years about the rodeo, but in a word all I'll say is that it was fascinating. Stuff like this happens there:

Also, did I mention that Paschal Sherman is four years old and state-of-the-art? Yeah, it got built with 40 years worth of BIA money. There are SmartBoards (the most amazing invention since the spork). There is a dormitory. There is a beautiful chandelier of steel salmon hanging in the atrium. There is an atrium. There is funding from national grants. There are class sizes of no larger than 25. There is an amazing atmosphere of conviviality and professionalism between the staff. It is probably the best run school I've ever worked at. Did I also mention that it is freaking gorgeous:

?

So, in terms of atmosphere, Paschal Sherman looks to be on the opposite end of the spectrum from Claver School. There have been and will be challenges, but there will also be amazing moments to relish in the thrill of learning. Yeah Learning!

Oh, and I'm assistant coaching football. Ha!

Boodbye, PG

It's been a busy week trying to write lesson plans, finish my grade log, figure out some kinks in my JVC app, and try to get observed by a strangely busy Mr. Nolberto. So I haven't really had time to feel a goodbye to the place that's been my home for the last two and a half months. Nevertheless, my last lesson is in an hour and tomorrow I'm off for my Guatemalan adventure with Sean.





So, instead of some final thoughts (I'll probably write that once I get back home), i'll leave you for now with a story: One of my students walked up to me yesterday and asked if I would be back in September. I said I didn't know. She looked angry and then just told me that when I came back I would have to teach first Form at Toledo Community College (the high school) so that I can teach them again.

Nostalgia Time!

As I get ready to leave PG, here is a list I actually started on the last week of January when I was homesick and have been tweaking ever since:

Things I Miss about Seattle:
1. Josh Lee (read: old friends, seriously I miss you people like crazy)
2. High speed internet (read: youtube)
3. Microbrews!!!! (I would kill for a Black Butte Porter)
4. Hot showers
5. Tofu (read: Pho)
6. Scarves (read: Sunny and cold weather [Carrie Pillers knows!])
7. The Stranger
8. Not being thought of as a “rich American”
9. Not having ankles covered in bug bites
10. Not wondering if the bug bite I just got is malarious and thinking ‘I guess I’ll just have to find out in two weeks!’
11. Not finding gecko crap everywhere (thanks, Oscar)
12. Coffee that is not instant
13. Paseo & Honeyhole sandwiches
14. Recycling
15. Organic things and fresh vegetables (a salad that isn’t merely just an eighth of a head of iceburg lettuce would be nice)

Things I’ll Miss about Belize:
1. Not being overwhelmed by the pace of anything
2. Looking out at the hills on the horizon and seriously wondering where Belize ends and Guatemala begins
3. Seeing white people I don’t know and wondering what the hell they are doing
4. The unadulterated taste of ginger
5. Drums. Everywhere.
6. Not having to care about recycling (I’m a terrible person!)
7. My nails being orange for a couple days after eating caldo (last night it was armadillo)
8. Fried plantains (holy damn, I can’t stop eating them!)
9. Power outages (I’m actually being serious, they just seem to add a little unexpected excitement to the day)
10. Seeing the European Union flag somewhat disconcertingly often
11. Every other house in the neighborhood anxiously awaiting the weekend to blare music loud enough for the entire block to hear (country, reggaeton, Akon, Cindy Lauper, and of course Punta Rock).
12. Watermelon juice
13. Alright, my students

Election time, again

So in November we all witnessed history. I’m not just talking about the fact that an awesome black guy was elected President of the USofA. What I mean is that for the first time in our lifetime, my generation actually felt that we had a stake in the election, that we could make a difference, and that our voices actually mattered for once. For the first time in our lifetime, young people were politically active in droves and played a vital roll in the election of the guy we wanted rather than just staying at home and then complaining for four years. Awesome. However, after two years of folks giving out empty promises like they were free pencils on Red Ribbon Week, November couldn’t have come sooner. The campaigning went about a month too long, and by the end I think we were all a little bit burnt out. I was glad for election time to be over. Boy was I wrong.

On March 4th, Belize had nationwide municipal elections and the politicians have been out for the past month with more of the same promises. Just like the Congressional elections back home, the municipal elections are important in their own right but are much more useful as a national political barometer. The two major parties since independence 25 years ago are the PUP (People’s United Party) and the UDP (United Democratic Party). The PUP was the first political party in Belize and though it played an immensely important part in the struggle for independence, it likes to tell people that it was the sole force behind the independence movement. The head of the party at the time, and the first Prime Minister was George Price, the Father of the Nation. I guess he was kind of like our George Washington. Was he the single most important person in the independence era? Yes. Would Belize still be a colony today without him? Who knows. Anyway, the PUP doesn’t let people forget it’s place in Belizean history. The two party system here isn’t really broken along the traditional lines of leftist or rightist. Both parties claim to be for the poor and there is no discernable party platform. The UDP actually only seems to be there as an alternative option for people to tell the PUP that they feel like a change.

That change came last year in the General Election when Dean Barrow was elected Prime Minister after ten years of PUP power and, more important, blatant corruption. Former PM, Said Musa, and his top advisor are now under house arrest pending corruption charges that they funneled $10 million of aid into Belize Bank funds. What Dean Barrow inherited was crumbling infrastructure, millions in debt (not easy for a country like Belize to pay off), and a ton of hopes that he could set Belize on the right path and untarnish its image abroad. Now, a year in, the UDP got to find out what people thought of how they were handling the situation.

The political atmosphere is strikingly similar to that of the US. The PUP is playing the part of the Republicans, the broken former power that has no discernable leadership but is trying to be as opportunistic as possible by pointing out all of the things that the administration isn’t doing yet or is doing wrong. The so-called “old guard” of Musa and Price was actually suing the new party head, Johnny Briceño, for financial control of the party’s assets. My favorite PUP add was complaining how much food prices have gone up in the last year and blaming it on Barrow, despite the hike in food prices worldwide (has anyone seen how much Hannity is blaming Obama for the dive in stock prices? Talk about opportunists!) and how little work has been done in infrastructure. Dean is playing the part of Obama simply saying, “look what was handed to us and look what we’ve already done so far.”

Plus all the pageantry, oh the pageantry. The PUP came out with a brand new, sharp logo with the same appeal for simple symbol as the Obama “O”. They also hired a couple Punta Rock artists to record songs that were nowhere near as subtle as will.i.am. “The UDP has got to go. Dey doin nothing for the country man.” Seriously. PG has had a PUP mayor for six years but has been wrestling with a UDP town council for a year or two now. That means that nothing has really gotten done around town and the few things that have been done have had folks on each side taking credit. But for the last month there have been countless rallies and debates blaming each other and praising themselves, making promises, and arguing over such nonsensical things as the merits of a Tilapia farm in the area (in order to criticize the other’s plan for a farm, one candidate claimed that Tilapia would eat the other fish in the area). Basically, they’ve all been making different versions of the same promises “less crime, more jobs, rebuild the sports complex” and then criticizing each other for each other’s versions.

No one really knew how the elections were going to go, though we had our guesses. Most people here are staunchly for their party and wouldn’t leave if they were held at gunpoint. The PUP organizers were almost rabid in their attempt to regain prominence for their party. The mayor was going from house to house giving out drums in an attempt to buy people’s votes. The UDP displayed cautious optimism. A new party, the People’s National Party, came out of PG this year with a young mayoral candidate and a following of disenchanted PUP devotees. One guy was running as an independent who ran last year and got 35 votes nationwide. We had a mock election at Claver School last week, which would be a good indicator since we figured most kids would vote like their parents. UDP won handily, but the PNP got a surprising turnout, which speaks to its resonance with younger people and hopes for the future.

So, March 4th came and went and at about midnight the UDP caravan was going around town honking in victory. The PUP got romped. PG got a UDP mayor and town council. Throughout Belize, not a single PUP mayor was elected and only three PUP town councilors were elected IN THE WHOLE COUNTRY. If that isn’t a mandate I don’t know what is. The election was actually close in PG, but the PUP lost just enough votes at the hands of the PNP to get pooched. In Belmopan, the PUP came in third to another third party, the VIP (Voice in the Interest of the People). So I guess the people haven’t forgotten the corruption and cronyism of the last decade quite as easily as we all thought they would. That’s a good sign for good governance and a terrible sign for the PUP.

Ugh! California!

Let me tell you about something that has been a thorn in my craw for the last couple of weeks. In each of the classrooms, there is a bookshelf of neglected, irrelevant textbooks and half complete sets of encyclopedias that have either been donated by Belizean book companies or well-meaning folks from the States. How do I know the books are neglected? Well, first off, we never use them. More graphically, though, I got one of the encyclopedias out one day to try to find Korea in a map to show my class and was surprised to find a very prosperous ant colony had decided to make up camp within the cover. Within seconds, there were ants everywhere, quite perturbed that someone had had the gall to tear the roof off their home. Good luck trying to refinance now. How do I know that some of the books are from the States (and here’s the part where I get to my point)? One of the books on the shelf was my old 4^th grade California social studies textbook, “Oh, California” (and here’s the part where I tell you how I really feel)! What the hell?! Why would anyone ANYONE think that it was a good idea to send a California history textbook down to Punta Gorda, Belize? When would a Belizean fourteen year old ever have to or want to know about the history of missions and railroads in 19^th century California? I try to justify it in my head by thinking that maybe it could teach the kids about similar struggles of colonialism, but the colonial experience was completely different in both places. Belize never had missions, California was rarely neglected by whoever controlled it, and Belize never had an industrial revolution or at least not to the extent of California. I still wonder how this book got here. If it was just jumbled amongst an old pile of books put together by some fourth grade class hoping for Karma points, whether some poor dupe actually thought it would be useful in some way, or whether someone just wanted to get rid of it and thought that donating it to Belize was just as good if not better than recycling it or throwing it away. I think this brings me back to my original point (remember back in December?) that good intentions don’t count for much. Someone must have felt really good about donating a textbook to an “impoverished” (I’m willing to bet that’s the word they used) community in Central America, but that selfsame book is doing little more than providing a cozy home for ants and termites. Yeah, we need books here, but we need relevant books that can help the kids to read AND to understand their place in the world as Belizeans, not to find out the role of the Chinese in building the railroads.

Speaking of cultural competency (are we speaking of cultural competency?), an interesting project I saw recently from the STD VI science teacher was to make a poster with the food pyramid on it. You would think that basic nutrition is something that is fairly universal considering we all need the same vitamins and nutrients to keep ticking, but what came back later that week was a lot like this:

The most important staples are at the top of the pyramid, rather than the least necessary sugars. That is beyond the obvious fact that the different categories are completely different. Do you see whole grains anywhere on there? Obviously availability and access to certain types of food is a huge issue here.

Two twos

This is what a birthday looks like in Belize

The National Tour

So this past week, me and 55 students from Standard VI went on the annual National Tour to get some experiential learning based around the Social Studies section of the PSE. We left on the bus at a little after two in the morning and six hours later we were in Belize City for a whirlwind tour that would take us up the country, across the country, back across, and then down again.

The Met Service
Our first stop on the tour after breakfast in Belmopan was at the Meteorological Service, where we got to see their old equipment and new radar that they haven’t learned how to use yet. This was funny because our joke here is that the weathermen on TV seem to be telling you today’s weather as if it is tomorrow’s and hoping no one will notice. It was fun to see there stuff, though, even though the kids were already exhausted from staying up on the bus all night.

Oren checkin out the crafts at the HOC

House of Culture
Our next stop was at the House of Culture, which was cool because it used to be the Governor’s Mansion while Belize was still a colony. Now, it’s somewhat of a museum and art gallery displaying different kinds of art from around the country. The kids were far more excited about the two giant cruise ships that were parked out beyond the reef on the sea. I don’t blame them, though. Mostly it was old gubernatorial furniture and china.

The Museum of Belize
The Museum of Belize was our next stop and may have been one of the highlights of the whole trip. The Museum used to be Her Majesty’s Prison (talk about a name that asserts colonial power) all the way until 1993 when it was converted to house some amazing collections of Mayan art and jade, old relics from 19th century Belize City, stamps, and a collection of old woodcutting supplies. They had done a masterful job of remodeling the historic building and had even kept one of the old cells to show just crappy it was to be a prisoner at HMP. Another fun thing was that I had just gone over a story about Marcus Garvey with my students and they were able to recall it when they saw a picture of him on a trip he had taken to Belize. Yay for retention!

Old Belize
Finally, we went to Old Belize for a much appreciated lunch and rest. Old Belize is a fantastically strange tourist attraction built for people coming straight off of the cruise ships to “get a taste of Belizean history”. It is home to a beach with a zipline and a waterslide, a bar and restaurant, and life-sized replicas of a rainforest, a Mayan house, old nineteenth century industrial supplies and a recreation of a street in nineteenth century Belize City. The crown jewel in this collection is an actual old locomotive used to carry logs to Belize City. It was a fun way to get the students to see history as not just some artifacts behind a glass. The kids loved the restaurant, which is one of the only restaurants in the whole county big enough to house a group of 60. The other tourists there looked a little offput by the sudden influx of locals, which I found hilarious. The kids were weirded out by the historical recreations of their ancestor’s homes. At the “Garifuna exhibit” of a wooden shack with a dirt floor one of the students said “that’s not what my house looks like!” and one of the others replied “no it’s what they USED to look like!”

And Then,,.
By the end of the day we were all exhausted and took the bus halfway across the country to stay at the Belizean FIFA headquarters in Belmopan. It was an unimpressively small building with an unimpressive football stadium behind it. Actually, for Belize it wasn’t that unimpressive considering that football largely takes a backseat to basketball here. After we showered we took the bus across the rest of the country to have dinner at Hode’s (ho-dees) in San Ignacio, another one of the only restaurants to hold 60. Hode’s however, also had a video arcade and ice cream: pleasant treats after a hard day’s work. So we got back and the girls went upstairs to sleep in beds while we slept on cots on loan from the national disaster relief organization. I crashed hard and Mr. Nolberto was left to manage the 20 boys as their sugar rushes died into sugar comas

National Tour (Day 2)

Those documents are from 1792!

The National Archives
Te next morning we woke up at 6 for another ambitious schedule. The National Archives ended up being far more amazing that I could have imagined and were the highlight of the trip for me and Mr. Salam. I was expecting an air conditioned building with files full of old newspapers and birth certificates. It was exactly that, until the tour guide started pulling out old historical documents and showing them around. There was a census from 1827 that included slaves (with names like “Coffee” and “Rum and Water”). The crown jewel, however, was the original minutes of the Magistrates Meetings from 1797. This was the original form of self-government used by the old Baymen before Belize was officially under the British crown. She even let me hold and read the faded document that listed who would leave or stay during the Spanish invasion that led to the Battle of St. George’s Caye, the battle that effectively ousted the Spanish from British Honduras. So basically I got to hold the document that eventually led to the creation of Belize. I got a tingle in my spine unlike any I’ve ever felt before. Yeah. I’ve seen the Magna Carta, The Declaration of Independence, a Gutenberg Bible, John Locke’s handwriting, and the Book of Kells among many other historical documents but they were all behind layers of bulletproof glass, hermetically sealed, and as distant and abstract as the centuries they were written in. Sure, this document didn’t have quite the same impact on world history but holding it I was awash with a sense of who they people were who wrote it and what they must have felt as their settlement was at the brink of collapse. Ultimately, yes, this document should be preserved and will probably be mere scraps in a hundred year, but I would never trade anything for that feeling. The students, meanwhile got most excited about old postcards of PG.

The National Assembly
After our trip to the Archives, we went across Belmopan to the National Assembly, the seat of the Belizean Government. The capital was actually moved from Belize City in 1964 after Hurricane Hattie when everyone realized that maybe an easily flooded coastal city isn’t the best place for the country’s most important everything. So in much the same idea as Brasilia, they decided to build a whole new city of bureaucracy around which a population would eventually arise. Unlike Brazil, however, Belize only had 200,000 people at the time and through the 80’s Belmopan was a ghost town where politicians would go to get their business done and then get the hell out. In the 90’s however, refugees poured into the west from civil wars in El Salvador and Guatemala, and now Belmopan is one of the three largest towns in the nation. As a product of the Bauhaus architecture of the 60’s the capital buildings are depressing concrete slabs that are supposedly inspired by Mayan architecture but look like a self-important state college campus. On the inside, the National Assembly is a bland concrete building that would be embarrassing as the seat of government of a medium sized town in the States. Outside of architecture, though, it was amazing to be in such an intimate setting as the capital of a nation. I got to walk on the floor of the Assembly, which was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I expected to see Prime Minister Barrow at any point walking in to pick up a forgotten paper or something. And, everyone got a kick out of the fact that one of the Senators in named Senator Salazar.

Western Dairies
We left Belmopan for the western Cayo District where we once again had lunch at Hode’s before heading to the Mennonite settlement at Spanish Lookout. Spanish Lookout was very different from what I expected. Instead of the bearded, blue shirted, buggy driving Mennonites that we have here in Toledo (and no, I haven’t gotten a chance to meet Mary Ragen’s nephew here yet), the Mennonites in Cayo were just a bunch of blonde folks in cowboy hats. The Mennonites are known for the industrious farming, bargain prices on imports, and Western Dairies. We were supposed to have a tour of the dairy but new health regulations didn’t permit it. And a weird thing was that when the students went to go get ice cream, the black students always got served last. Every time. Apparently the Mennonites here have a reputation for being racist. So after getting ice cream, we went to their bargain shopping center for bit, and we finally drove home down to PG.

Final Thoughts
Overall, it was a fantastic trip. I obviously got a lot of it and the bigger nerds in the class were also taking voracious notes. A lot of kids complained that the places we visited were boring, but kids generally complain a lot when they’re tired and hungry. One student complained really loudly that the trip sucked. I asked him what he thought of the trip when we got back from Hode’s and he said he loved it. It was also fun to be with the students outside of class. Generally, the kids and myself are friendly and joking outside of the classroom and it’s only in the class that the battle lines get drawn between me and the trouble-makers. So for two days it was like we were on extended break joking and talking and me sometimes telling someone to stop fooling around or take of their hat. I’m finally developing a relationship with my students which feels great. In fact, at Spanish Lookout I was talking with two of my biggest goof-offs while eating ice cream. During the conversation, one of them referred to me as a tourist obviously meaning it as an insult and seeing 1. if I was sly enough to catch his veiled insult and 2. if I would say anything about it. I would freely admit that I am a tourist but before I was able to say anything, the other guys said “Hey quit it. He didn’t mean it, sir.” He was actually defending me against his friend! So I guess some of the students are beginning to appreciate me, even if they give me crap in class.

I Lost the Crown

Last night we had fish for dinner and I finished quite hastily because I had to go work on my JVC application and lesson plans. Needless to say, I lost the crown for the first time in weeks. Ok, maybe I should explain the crown first. Since my second night in PG, Stefan and Camille have challenged me to an eating contest every dinner. I cleaned them out that first night of the contest (we had fried chicken that night and Stefan was left agape at how much fried meat I could consume in one sitting). However, the next night I was flabbergasted myself when I finished my plate and excused myself, prompting Camille to declare proudly that she had vanquished me and “won the crown”. I had eaten twice as much as she had and in half the time no less! Then I realized that in Stefan and Camille’s eyes, the amount of time sitting at the table is in direct correlation to the amount of food consumed. Since then I’ve held the crown unchallenged (until last night) as I gorge myself on two helpings and then just sit at the table patiently sipping my watermelon or soursop juice and talking to Marion and Patricia about politics or my family or my life goals or whatever. This has become one of my cherished little rituals here, and one of the highlights of my homestay so far. I’m really glad that I’ve been able to live with a family.

Another funny little ritual of mine also comes on Tuesdays and involves my antimalarial. Since I have to take one pill of chloroquine every week, I’ve found that counting my chloroquinet is a fun way to count down the weeks until I’m back in Seattle. Right now, I have 10 pills (10 – 3 weeks after I get back – 2 extra pills just in case = 5 weeks). Can you believe I’m only here for 5 more weeks? Neither can I. Especially since I only have three and half weeks at Claver, then a week in Guatemala with Sean Rawson, then a week in Belize City with the Camp Min crew. I know it’s going to go by quickly. On Thursday, 50 of the STD VI students and all of the STD VI teachers are going on the Annual overnight National Tour to go visit government buildings in Belmopan, museums in Belize (City), and Mennonites in Cayo. I’m really excited and I’m pretty sure I’m going to get more out of the trip than most of my students (yeah, I’m a huge nerd and I’m fine with that). Then next week is my birthday! Sweet!

The Day Jeff Blake Saved My Soul

Sometimes God acts through us. I witnessed this this past week when I got a package from my good friend from high school, Jeff. I opened the package to find a brand new copy of one of my favorite books, The Spitwad Sutras: Classroom Teaching as Divine Vocation by Robert Inchausti. It is about the author’s trials, tribulations, and revelations in his first year of teaching at an all boys Catholic High School in California. Anyone who went to an all boys high school will read it and immediately recognize the themes of pettiness, rudeness, youth, and boredom as well as the usual antics that occur whenever you get more than 100 boys together in one place at one time. Needless to say, this is one of my favorite books for its insight and relevance. Ultimately it is a praise of the struggles and triumphs of the classroom teacher. So, it was exactly what I needed in my life right now. Thanks, Jeff.

Here are two of my favorite quotes:
“’We don’t know how to teach them, ‘ Mike would say. ‘And they don’t know how to learn from us. So they use us as foils to figure out the system, in hopes that they’ll never have to grow up. And we don’t confront them about this, because we don’t have any alternatives to the system. The only thing we offer them is the intolerable option of becoming like us!’”
“To survive as a teacher, one must master the art of creative suffering. Like Ghandi’s nonviolent soldiers of truth, the dedicated teacher must walk into the assault of pettiness and disinterest every day with no expectation of victory – serene only in the hope that the abuse one endures is redemptive and encouraged by the conviction that teaching is, above all other things, an art of endurance.”

These insights have been very important to me as I’ve slowly been able to try to connect with my students over the short period of ten weeks. I think classes are going better but my students are still bored, and petty, and immature. I can’t make them grow up, they have to do that on their own. All I can do is hope that my work is helping them on their road to adulthood. Meanwhile, I’m learning just not to take the crap my students give me so personally.

In other news, the Ministry of Education has been here all week doing assessments and making everyone far too stressed out. I’ve been trying to make it bearable by pretending they are from the Ministry of Magic and are searching for clues to horcruxes among the lesson plans. Volunteers are not supposed to be observed but I got semi-observed twice. Actually, I was subbing in STD IV and was trying to get the students to quiet down. An MOE rep walked in to see what they hell was going on, saw me, heard my accent, shook her head, and walked away. Creative suffering. Creative suffering. Creative suffering…

The Roomie

So I haven’t mentioned this to anyone yet, but I have a roommate. His name is Oscar and he is loud and stays up all night long. And he mostly stays in the bathroom all the time. And he’s a wild gecko. Oscar is a generous soul, because he’s always leaving presents for me. In the morning I will go into the bathroom to get ready to conquer the day and find little pellets of dry gecko crap on the toilet or on the floor of the bathtub. What a guy. Luckily we both like the same TV shows and have had a blast watching 30 Rock together.

Oscar

Oscar's present

Oh, that reminds me that I’ve forgotten to mention another curiosity about life in PG. Almost everyone here almost regardless of income has cable from a satellite in town that picks up a feed from New York City. So I get basic cable (minus Comedy Central and my favorite CBC) plus HBO, Cinemax, TMC, and Starz. It’s a little surreal but it’s also been a great way to wind down after a day of teaching and just tune out for a little bit before writing another series of lesson plans while watching 300 or end-to-end syndicated episodes of Seinfeld. Luckily, I haven’t been bored enough yet to watch the local NYC newscast. So I’ve been able to keep up with college basketball and the state of the gigantic Demorama sandwich (with pork!) of a stimulus package. It’s funny because Marion hates getting involved in Belizean politics and would much rather talk about politics in the States. So I watch Wolf Blitzer with him and then Patricia and I get to find out what’s actually going on in our neck of the Hemisphere on the Belize 5 news while Marion cooks or goes to teach curriculum development at the University of Belize. By the way, the cane riots ended after the first day but the cane farmers are still on strike. And yes, I did get to watch Superbowl XLIII. One of the PeaceCorps folks works at the local eye clinic and gets to live upstairs for free. So she borrowed the projector from downstairs and we watched the Superbowl on a bed sheet nailed to the wall of a Belizean eye clinic. The surreality is just too much to bear. My favorite commercial involved a Koala being punched in the face, but we all got an ironic kick out of a big screen TV commercial that said “If your TV doesn’t say Vizio right here (arrow points to bottom of sheet) you’re not getting the full experience”.

R.I.P. Millard Fuller

A Picture of Millard Fuller and his wife, and Clarence Jordan.

Ok, so this doesn't have much to do with Belize, but Monday marked the passing one of the great Americans of the 20th century. Millard Fuller was a self-made millionaire who one day decided to give away all of his wealth because it seemed to be tearing his family apart. He was traveling through the South with them when they happened upon Koinonia Farm. Koinonia had been quite literally a battle ground in the civil rights movement as a desegregated communal Christian farm at the edge of Americus, Georgia, a town that was known at the time as equal to Selma, Alabama in its racism (I've been to Koinonia, and it truly is a holy place of peace). Once Millard met the founder of Koinonia, Clarence Jordan, the two hit it off right away. Both charged by a calling to do God's work for the poor, they began many projects to get people homes and land in Americus. After Clarence died, Millard used the framework of their work together to found Habitat for Humanity. Rest in Peace, Millard Fuller, and may your calling live on in all of our lives.

They Named a Mayan Village After My Dad

San Miguel

First off, this past weekend officially marked the longest period of time I have ever spent abroad. An important milestone indeed. On Sunday, Patricia invited myself and Kristie and Lauren and their boyfriends to visit her family in the Mayan village of San Miguel. So the Nolbertos (including me), made room for the Minnesotans and the Canadians in the truck and headed into the jungle. When we arrived, we dropped off the kids and Patricia to chat with her family and Marion drove us even further into the jungle to Tiger Cave.

On the drive, I thought to myself that I was entering the Jungle episode of Planet Earth (this made me pretty excited since the Jungle episode is my favorite). Then Jon spotted the national bird (my first wild toucan sighting!) and I knew I was in the Jungle episode of Planet Earth. Slowly, the voice of David Attenborough entered my head and narrated the rest of our journey. Then we got to the cave and walked around the mouth and all of a sudden we were in the Caves episode of Planet Earth. Patricia’s brother James told us that people have walked for miles inside the cave and still not found the end. Apparently the last Classical Mayans in Belize used caves like these to keep fresh water and keep their civilization alive. Of course, I started walking into the cave while everyone else got bored and started swimming in the river. Eventually we had a diving competition and got nibbled by little river fish. It was definitely one of the more awesome days I’ve had in Belize.

Lauren and Kristie summit a rock while Jon and Matt explore the floor. Eat your heart out BBC.

When we got back, the Krisite and Lauren volunteered to help make tortillas (no men allowed) and mostly got laughed at by the rest of the Cal clan. Then we ate a delicious meal of Caldo, a chicken soup (more chicken, surprise surprise). I didn’t get to talk with the Cal’s much, which was regrettable, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned since being in PG it’s that Mayans don’t easily open up to strangers, something which I won’t try to impose.

One thing which I wish I had gotten a chance to talk about was the recent constitutional referendum in Bolivia which granted more indigenous rights than has ever been granted since Columbus got lost on his way to India (in my opinion, Columbus was an idiot who obviously didn’t know anything about the people he was trying to steal wealth from in the first place and didn’t even know the difference between a Tamil and an Arawak). The referendum took place without any violence, the threat of which, if you didn’t already know, was what kept me from going to Bolivia for 6 months instead of Belize. So I now know in hindsight that I could have gone to Bolivia without a hitch. Ironically, it’s actually more violent in Belize where the sugar cane farmers are rioting in Orange Walk since the government bought a machine (called a core sampler in case you’re interested) which checks the quality of their cane instead of simply giving them a flat rate per pound. So far four people have been injured and one person has died. Don’t worry, though, Mom. Orange Walk is on the other side of the country and there is no sugar in Toledo, so I feel as removed from the riots as if I was in Bolivia. Anyways, I’m glad now that I can graduate with my own class and enter an unforgiving job market at the height of its unforgivableness.

The ladies makin' tortillas.

Belize Fun Fact: The national flag of Belize is the only national flag in the world with people on it.

Sittin' on the Tracks

So last year for my Education and the Polity class, I wrote a paper on educational tracking. For those of you who don’t speak Educationalese, tracking is when you group students together based on ability. Even at my last internship at Franklin High School, students were tracked into academies which focused on obvious directions such as college bound students (Honors and Public Service Academies) and trade students (Engineering! Woot for CREATE!). I realize the theoretical as well as practical arguments for and agaisnt tracking in the States. Little did I know that the tracking battle would following down to the tropics!

Yeah, after Infant 2 (Second Grade) and entering into Standard 1 (3^rd Grade) the students at Claver School get assigned to classrooms based on attendance records. Though no one says it officially, these classes are hereby referred to as either “least, middle, or most focused” behind closed doors. And don’t think that the kids are dumb enough not to notice these groupings. Speaking in terms of efficacy, attendance records may not be the best of tools to decide tracking but they get the job done all the same. For the most part, the differences are stark and have been growing for the last six years.

The “most focused” class was a pain the first week. They have been placed with the least experienced/authoritative teachers because they are seen as self-starters. So, they are used to a certain level of anarchy and being able to do whatever the hell they wanted. Then they met me and realized I meant business for the most part. Now, they realize that if they don’t listen and take notes they’re not going to pass their quizzes. I made four versions of the same quiz to ensure they wouldn’t cheat and they said “Wow, you’re smart, Sir”. For the most part, they are bound for high school. There are even a couple who should be in high school already will easily pass the PSE.

The “middle” class was fantastic compared to the other two the first week. I guess they were just testing me out and looking for week spots, because now they are my worst behaved and least respectful. They openly mock me (my name, my accent, and the fact that I have no power outside of the threat of sending them to the office). They are truly little shits.

The “least focused” class, gave me a ton of trouble the first week, but can be managed with help from another teacher. For the most part I’ve learned to ignore the ones who don’t listen and focus on the ones who do (at least keeping it quiet enough for those students to hear me!). The kids who don’t listen have short attention spans and can’t even take notes from the board without constant supervision. The sad thing about a lot of these kids is that once they fail the PSE they’ll have no chance to go back to school and will be out on the street and forced to be much more adult than they are ready to be. Some of them will get trade jobs, others will wind up on the corner smoking pot at 14 years old. I try to tell myself that these students have far too many problems for me to handle by myself, but I still can’t help but think of them when I see another robbery or murder on the news perpetrated by another kid with no way out of poverty.

Of course, all of these classes have exceptions, especially when the classes are based on attendance. There are students in the “most focused” class who aren’t going to pass their entrance exam unless they work their asses off for the next two months. There are some students in the “least focused” class who raise their hands for every question and get really mad when I don’t call on them every time. I guess the “least focused” group is helpfully removed so as not to provide a distraction for the other classes, but there are goof-offs and antics in every class. So, as I write my lesson plans I have to plan for how I’m going to attack the same lesson in three different ways for the different classes. One thing that I could work on is making sure that the students who will not pass the PSE get something from my lessons. I know that there will be some students in each class who don’t pass. If at least a couple of students from each class pass, though, I will have considered myself a success.

Veggie Burger

The Veggie Burger

So this past weekend the Minnesotans and I finally went to Placencia! It was my first time hanging out with them, but they were actually a great group. It was fun to be with other teaching majors and be able to bond over gripping about lesson planning and the educational system in the States and dorky teacher stuff. Basically we got to talk shop. Beyond being able to find stuff in common, though, they were also a super fun group (as well as individually) in their own right. I had a great time hanging out with them and feel like I’m starting to have a network of friends. Yay for friends!

For us, the weekend spawned a new term that can succinctly describe our entire adventure: veggie burger. On Friday night, we went to a Mexican restaurant called Amigos. At said restaurant Ellen ordered a veggie burger. She asked for it with cheese and the server muttered “cheese on the vegetables…” under her breath. I was the only person who heard it and knew that this was probably not going to be a Boca Burger. When the veggie burger did show up, it was in the form of a hamburger bun filled with a slice of Kraft Singles, two pieces of iceburg lettuce, three slices of cucumber and a giant slab of tomato. We all thought it was hilarious and decided that the term “veggie burger” would be heretofore used for anything that is underwhelming.

Entertaining ourselves any way we can...

So we had a veggie burger weekend. Placencia is the beach spot of southern Belize, with possibly the best beaches in the whole country. We showed up having not booked any beds but found that outside of tourist season it was easy to get a cabana right on the beach that we could all split. It was already going to be awesome. Thusly, we were looking forward to sun and sand, especially after last week’s rains. But then, it rained again all day Saturday and we were pent up inside. We took a four-hour nap. We went to a bar with sand floors. We heard a cover band (I still have “54-46 That’s My Number” stuck in my head). We ate pizza. We sang Journey. We played cards. We didn’t tan. We didn’t go snorkeling. We didn’t bring rain coats. Finally, the sun came out Sunday and we were able to sit around and tan at least a little before catching the water taxi back to the bus. So the trip wasn’t a complete failure. The veggie burger, though unexpected, still tasted good.

The Coolie Rebels!

The funny thing about Placencia was the overabundance of white people. I saw more white people this past weekend than the total number of white people since I left Miami. This was a little unexpected since it’s out of tourist season with kids in school and people at work. So there were a lot of older white people, either retirees or ex-pats who owned business that catered to us folks with Yankee accents. Yup, with its actually existent nightlife, wi-fi hotspots, craft shops, seaweed milkshakes, and snorkeling packages, Placencia is the epitome of a tourist trap catering to the needs and desires of ex-pats, kids on spring break, and volunteers like us who are burnt out after three weeks and just want to unwind. Yeah, it’s a Disneyfication of the Belize I know in PG, and yeah its terrible that most of the money that comes into Belize comes in through wealthy foreigners rather than local industry. But yeah, I also needed to unwind, have a drink, listen to Girl Talk, and stick my toes in the sand.

Finally getting sun in front of the cabana

Life in Belize

Last week:
Stefan, Camille, and I were walking back from their grandma’s house on the next street over. The day had already been long and I had had nothing better to do so I had decided to walk over with them. On the walk back we decided to take the other route home. On the corner of Jasmine Street we neared a fence that had completely toppled over in the middle. Across the road, the skinniest rooster I had ever seen was strutting around the yard as a chicken gathered her chicks into the shade from the hot day. Some clothes were hanging on a clothesline. They were not in the sun but rather were sharing the shade with the chicks under a house that had been built on stilts to protect from hurricanes.
As we approached the corner, Stefan absently picked up a rock and looked up at me. “Do you want to get chased by a dog?” he asked with the same sort of glee that I expect he would have had if he had asked if I had wanted to go on a rollercoaster for the 14th time in a row. The sort of glee that only a 10 year old can have after 13 straight times on the same rollercoaster. “Not particularly?” I said, trying to betray my surprise (something that I always find myself trying to do when traveling). Before the “larly” had even left my lips, a dog jumped from over the toppled fence, headed straight for us. Before the “ly” had left my lips, rocks were already in midair, loosed from Stefan and Camille’s hands and on a trajectory for the dog. The rocks bounced around him in some sort of cheap, Belizean reenactment of the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. Only this brown mutt was playing the part of Tom Hanks and the kids were the Nazis. I was Vichy France.
The dog stopped in his tracks, waiting for the barrage to end. “Quick!” yelled Stefan, already running. Down the road we ran, all the way back to the pink house with ‘Nolberto’ over the door.

Last night:
We were having dinner when I heard a sound outside that was strangely reminiscent of a street sweeper. Now mind you our street is a dirt road, so a street sweeper would be completely insane. That being said, I would have been only slightly surprised if I had looked out the window and seen a street sweeper that had been stupidly donated by the European Union or the Republic of China (Taiwan) and emblazoned with the flags of either. What I did see when I looked outside was a street sweeperesque truck releasing clouds of insecticide into the air in order to suppress the mosquito population after our recent rains.

This morning:
In nearly a month in Belize (I’m counting the week I spent in Belize City last year), I saw a fire truck for the first time today. As it drove down the street, water was literally spilling out of its truckbed.

Watching the Inauguration in Belize

I don't have to tell anyone that history was made yesterday. So, in order to revel in it, a couple of the teachers and myself dismissed the preschool students early so that we could use the only TV on the coumpound.

Yes, I teared up.

A Garifuna Weekend

Although it rained all weekend (now they tell me that Toledo has the same reputation in Belize that Seattle has in the States and I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m an unwitting rain god, especially after my recent trip to Tijuana where they experienced the “storm of the century” while I was there. Now we’re having the coldest and wettest weather in recent memory in PG. Douglas Adams anyone?) I had a very relaxing weekend basically being further immersed in Garinagu culture as well as watching movies and football.

As I mentioned briefly before, Friday was a celebration of the life of Andy Palacio who died a year ago on Sunday. Andy was a world-respected artist who was born in Barranco, the Garinagu town just south of PG. He actually taught Marion in Secondary School when Marion was growing up in Barranco although he was apparently pretty mean to Marion for being too poor to afford textbooks. As an artist, though, Andy P (as he is affectionately known here) was a cultural activist who was inspired as a young man on a trip to Nicaragua where he met an old Garifuna man who had slowly seen his culture die around him there as young people lost more and more of their Garinagu roots. Andy returned to Belize where the Garinagu traditions were still thriving from Barranco through Placencia, Hopkins, and PG, up to Dangriga. Andy decided to use music to create cultural awareness about this small population found throughout Central America and quickly gained recognition as a young Caribbean musician in the early 90s. In 2007, he released his landmark achievement: an album called Wátina that pulled together Garifuna artists from Belize, Guatemala, and Honduras to celebrate their culture through song. The album is a fantastic production and within the next year earned Andy a spot at #1 on the World Music charts (apparently there is such a thing), an award from BBC as the best World Music album from the Americas (2007), and recognition from UNESCO as an Artist for Peace. Needless to say, Andy was the biggest thing Belize has seen at least since being an independent nation and one of his Garifuna friends purportedly told him that he could die knowing that his dream had been fulfilled. Within the year, the 48 year old died of a complication of his brain.

The Celebration Friday night

Fr. Perl cutting a rug

The Garifuna presence in Belize is very strong, and is particularly strong along the southern coast in places like Barranco, Dangriga, and PG. The Garifuna story began when the Arawak tribe moved from South America up the Caribbean island chain. Their path was followed by the Carib tribe, who killed the Arawak men but married the women. The hybrid culture thus began, with men speaking Carib and women speaking Arawak (and passing that language to their children). According to a documentary I saw last week, these people were followed by African merchants who had crossed the Atlantic long before Columbus, settled in the Guyanas and also moved up the island chain. I haven’t heard anything like this before, so I need to fact check, but I still think that it is pretty damn awesome (anything to take more steam out of Columbus’ sails [pardon the pun]). Either way, whether they were merchants or escaped slaves, Africans eventually met this hybrid tribe and became a part of it (Garinagu actually means “Black Carib”), bringing many African survivals with them. Because of this, it is hard to physically tell Garinagu apart from Kriols. The Garinagu were exiled from their home island of St. Vincent to Roatan and eventually were exiled from there to Belize, Guatemala, and Honduras. They quickly set up a thriving and independent fishing and farming community that was never enslaved despite the fact that the logging industry fueled by slavery was already well underway just a few miles north. In order to keep the slaves from trying to escape to these free communities of people who looked very similar to themselves, slave owners began to spread rumors of cannibalism among the Garinagu, saying that they ate babies and children. These rumors and fears have survived into the present day as there is a lot of racism (especially from Kriols) directed toward the Garinagu in modern day Belize.

But the Garifuna community continues to thrive and embrace its heritage and language. Marion is very proud of his roots and is actually the former President of the Garifuna National Council, PG Branch. There is a Garifuna language mass every month at SPC. When Josh asked me what songs were popular here, I told him that I have probably the same four or five Andy P songs about forty times already (either by the original artist or covers). The celebration was fun, by the way, if not long. At least the music and dancing were good. Although all of the Garinagu in town are staunch Catholics, they also hold strongly onto traditional spirituality, constantly asking for the intercession of their ancestors, especially through the medium of sacred drums. Lots of children speak Garifuna and there is actually a Garifuna cultural retrieval program at school. I knew that there would be a strong Garinagu presence here, but I don’t think I was ready for how much I would be immersed in that culture other than Maya or Kriol. I even had a traditional Garifuna meal on Saturday thanks to another vice principal. Delish!

Another cultural note of interest: There is a small Indian (here called East Indian) population in Belize and PG. They seem to all be in construction, which is very different from any Indian people I know in the States. Also, on Saturday night Marion was talking about how the Garifuna like listening to traditional Garifuna music, the Mayans like listening to punta rock (a popularized take on Garifuna rhythms), and that for some reason the East Indians love country music. The next morning, I woke to the sounds of a buzzsaw and hammering next door accompanied by “I’ve Got Friends In Low Places” and other country hits unknown to me. I wouldn’t call myself a fan of county music, but I’m still open to the idea and wouldn’t say that I hat it either. Maybe I can make friends with an East Indian and learn to love country.

The Freakout

On Tuesday, when the last student left my classroom I sat in the empty room for a couple of minutes, contemplated the day, and almost broke down. Nothing was going right. My lessons were not well planned and I ended up having to drag them out to fill the impossibly long hour and a half slots, leaving both myself and my students bored with the material. The three classes are at vastly different levels and I had no idea how to cater to three different groups in a single day. My students were openly disrespectful to the point of laughing at me literally behind my back when I was writing on the board. Meanwhile, I was wracking my brain to figure out how to plan culturally competent lessons in reading comprehension without anything for the class to read! Not only were there no textbooks, there were no books of any sort that were suitable to what I needed. How the hell do you teaching reading without books?! The straw that broke the camel’s back was when my supervising teacher was unexpectedly called into another meeting and left me with the most rambunctious class again. They walked all over me, and I spent the next hour playing crowd control rather than teaching.



So there I was with my head in my hands and my entire world crumbling around me. What the hell was I doing? I was not only looking forward to, but praying for, the final bell almost within the first fifteen minutes into the school day. This was no way to lead a life. I want to feel good about what I do with my life, not be terrified by it and left crying every day. Even since my last internship in Seattle, I had gotten a feeling that teaching is not necessarily my forte and that my passions and talents are more geared towards trying to make education more effective through research, theory and policy work. Even so, I planned on teaching for a couple years before heading down that path just to get some worthwhile experience. By the end of Tuesday I doubted with all of my being that I could survive even a year in a classroom on my own. Who was I kidding? I was terrible at this. Maybe, if I gritted my teeth hard enough, practiced enough self denial, and counted the days until April I would possibly be able to make it through my entire internship without quitting on the spot and taking the next plane straight back to LA.



Luckily, I’ve learned from the Jesuits never to make an important decision during or immediately after a time of desolation. I spoke to Mr. Nolberto about books and he said, “Of course! All you have to do is ask!” and pulled out a crate of “New Caribbean Junior Readers” full of relevant short stories for me to photocopy and make worksheets. He then told me that since one of the Language Arts teachers begins University classes in the mornings next week that from next week on we will only be working in 45 minute sessions in the afternoon, giving me smaller blocks to fill and the entire morning to plan and grade.



Two of the three classes are still terrible toward me. However, I had a successful time having one of them do group work on Wednesday and will try to build on my success. In the other class, I had to yell at them that they were behaving terribly and once I finally had most of their attention, found (smelled) that one of the students was lighting paper on fire underneath his desk. Mr. Nolberto said he is going to have a talk with them today which is likely to put the fear of God into any class.



So, back from the brink of the abyss, things are looking up. I’m feeling much more confident about my lessons for next week, and feel like I have the materials to back me up. If there is one thing I’ve learned about the life of a teacher so far, it is that it is a rollercoaster ride to say the least.

This place is crawling with volunteers

Mike at the gardening workshop

For being such a small town, this place is crawling with volunteers. About a third of the twenty people at the gardening workshop were from the US. I guess they were PeaceCorps people since one of the presenters was a guy from the PeaceCorps named Mike. Mike is actually the one who told me about the workshop, and works on gardening projects at several schools in PG, including Claver School. He’s one of the first people here who introduced himself to me, and has been really great in making sure I feel welcomed and not alone (although that so far hasn’t been a problem, thank God). He also invited me to hang out with a bunch of other PeaceCorps volunteers in Toledo on Saturday night. Although I haven’t met the other groups in PG yet, I had some funny observations about this one. Individually, they are all awesomely cool people but as a group, the PeaceCorps folks seemed particularly sexually frustrated and relished in the opportunity to talk about anything from the States from movies to football (Sidenote, now that the Chargers, Panthers, and Titans are all out in one fell swoop I yet again have nothing to look forward to on Super Bowl Sunday except commercials). I guess having been here so long, you just need to take your mind off of Belize for a little while. Altogether, though, they were a fun group.

Other volunteers at Claver alone are Chica, who is here from a Japanese program and teaching computers (note: efficiency crazy Japanese people are really out of their element in laid-back Belize) and a Jesuit Volunteer in the Library (yeah, Josh, it’s an old water tank for sure) who I haven’t met yet. The JV’s live in a house together next to Claver. If you count all of those groups with me, Lauren, the Minnesotans and all those folk I haven't met or heard of (apparently the TIDE office is volunteer central)that means there are a ton of volunteers here. Oversaturation? Possibly, even though I don’t think you’d notice much difference in the way PG operates as a town if we all up and disappeared/were extradited/got malaria/took-the-ferry-to-Guatemala-and-were-never-heard-from-again one day. Yeah, the places we all work for would be hurting and missing the free labor, but I don’t think the average Punta Gordan would notice anything different. Does that mean we don’t do much as volunteers? I don’t think so. I like to think that means that PG would do alright on its own without us. And we do do pretty awesome things like teaching kids how to garden, use computers, and use the word “steal” (if I do say so myself).

The rest of the weekend:
Sunday was a fantastic opportunity to go to Garifuna mass at St. Peter Claver. Briefly (I’ll talk more about the Garinagu after Friday), the Garinagu are a group in Belize, Guatemala, and Honduras descended from Arawak and Carib Indigenous and escaped African slaves who were able to blend all three cultures. Marion (who is Garifuna) had spent the previous night teaching me a couple of the songs and dances for the mass. I ended up wearing one of Marion’s Garinagu shirts (which everyone loved) and sitting next to Patricia, who sang a little (quietly) and didn’t dance. Marion’s brother Kenny made fun of me for not dancing but I told him I would work on the lyrics this mass and the dances next time in February. Fr. Perl (the Jesuit who set up my contact with Claver School in the first place) presided and mass was fairly well attended. Marion is the lead of the choir which is mostly drums. I’m excited for this upcoming Friday, because there is going to be a celebration of Andy Palacio, a Garifuna artist who died last year suddenly and at a very young age. Next to Marion Jones (who is of Belizean heritage), he is by far the most famous person to come from Belize. That means that the celebration is going to be one hell of a shindig and a really unique opportunity. Marion even said that Paul Nabor (a fellow artist who is now probably the most renowned in Belize) may or may not be there, an awesome possibility indeed.

Marion rehearsing with the children in the choir

Me in my Garifuna shirt!

Other notes: I finally had mollyapples over the weekend. They're basically bland apples that you have to eat with chili powder to get any sense of satisfaction or sense that you actually ate something. Also, I just got done teaching my first lesson. The students actually grasped onto the material very easily and were well behaved while my supervising teacher was in the room. Now we just have two months to teach them how to put all of their lessons together into writing.

Another Thing I have in Common with Belizeans

Belizeans and I both love chicken. Of the 13 meals I have eaten, 7 have been chicken dishes. That's even more crazy if you think about the fact that we only have Johnny cakes for breakfast (subtract 4 meals). That's 7/9! And it turns out that Marion is an amazing cook and on Thursday night he made fried chicken. Now, if you know me at all you know that my favorite meal on earth is fried chicken. And this chicken was good! I'm talking about "it's possibly tied with Ezell's" good. And that is seriously good. This trip keeps on getting better by the day.

I just got done with a workshop on organic gardening for schools. It was hot as hell and now I'm contemplating never leaving this Internet cafe because it has a/c.

Contact infos!

Apparently there aren't any phone lines in Indianville, our neighborhood in PG. However, Mr. Nolberto has a cell phone that you can call if you ever miss the soothing sounds of my voice.
011(501)627-3659 is the number
Please call after 8:00pm (Central Time) to ensure that we're done with dinner.

My address is:
Matt Salazar c/o Marion Nolberto
Jasmine St.
Indianville/ Toledo Hope Area
Punta Gorda Town
Toledo District
Belize, Central America

Unfortunately, I don't think skype is going to work as I'm working with a 56k since the first time since the 8th grade and am having a hard enough time posting pictures.

Drop a line!

Thiefing some Mollyapples

Belize City Bus Terminal

So I finally got into PG at 9pm on Tuesday after taking the regular through Belmopan instead of the Express straight down the coast. Despite the length of the trip, we actually ended up going down the Hummingbird Highway through the Maya Mountains, which was terrifically scenic when I wasn’t sleeping. In PG I got dropped off at the University of Belize where Mr. Nolberto picked me up.

The Nolbertos are a cute little SPCS family. Marion is the director of Curriculum and Supervision, which makes him the chief disciplinarian. That means that about 80% of his day is occupied with my Standard VIers. Not only are they the most rambunctious, but they also have Secondary School placement exams (English in March, Math in May). Patricia is a quiet Keckchi Maya who teaches Infant II (2nd Grade). Stefan is 10 and Camille is 8. They’re both adorable. The whole family is adorable.

The Nolberto home

My first day at SPCS was anticlimactic enough. The Standard VIers had to come to school early today to write essay exams. When I arrived, they were hard at work, so I said hello to the teachers went to the office and stapled some worksheets together. Guess who got to grade the essays.
My second day afforded me and the two other interns an orientation on SPCS from Mr. Nolberto (more on SPCS later). Yes, there are two other interns here, although both of them are in Infant II. Kristie is from U of Minnesota, Duluth with 8 other teaching interns spread all over PG. She was originally supposed to be at St. Ben’s but they accidentally dropped her off at SPCS and here she is. Lauren is from University of Lethbridge in Alberta, Canada (to find out how amazingly ridiculous this is, ask Josh Lee) and is actually in Patricia’s class. We’re very grateful to be in such an organized school that knows what to do with interns, especially since the other Minnesotans are at places like St. Ben’s and Toledo Community College (despite the name, it’s a secondary school) were just put in classrooms on their own with no supervision, no introduction, and no direction. Meanwhile, my lesson plan on subject-verb agreement is due to Mr. Nolberto on Monday.

Yeah, it looks like Standard V Confirmation is out, with the PSEs (Primary School Exams) looming on the horizon (sorry, Kathy). I now appear to be the lead Reading Comprehension teacher for the 100 or so students in the three Standard VI classes. Of course, I will constantly be under the watchful eye of Mr. Nolberto and the three Standard VI teachers. However, it was only in my third class that my supervising teacher was called into a meeting and I was stuck with a classful of students and a short Spanish lesson. The kids played all the usual “test the sub” tricks (“Sir, Ms. Martinez lets us walk around the class” “My name is Banana, sir”) and I played my usual hardass who would rather come across as condescending than be fooled. I hate doing that and yet I know my three months would be down the crapper if I let the students run all over me on the first day. Also, don't worry, being left on my own is not going to be a regular occurance.

Thus, the teaching adventure begins. Thanks for joining me.

Claver school STD V and VI block

Yeah, my classroom looks out onto the Gulf of Honduras

Reflection:
It’s funny how much you can learn about someone from their writing. As with any class there were some standouts and some stinkers among the essays that I graded. The most common mistake was incessant shifting of tenses but what nagged me the most were the words Mollyapple and thief (pronounced "teeve"). The prompt that a vast majority of students chose to use was to write a story based on a picture of a boy picking red fruit out of a tree over a “No Trespassing” sign. While most students agreed that the fruit were apples (with one obstinate cherry dissenter), quite a few students called the fruit Mollyapples (or Moliapples or Marlyapples). I’ve never heard of Mollyapples but enough students referenced them for me to figure that they are not just some made-up fruit. I hadn’t been at school for an hour before my first hurdle with cultural competency. Awesome.

The second big word was the use of thief as a verb such as in “I thiefed the Mollyapples from the tree”. While I assume that the proper verb to use in this context is “stole”, these students have probably only ever used or heard thiefed except in movies. I didn’t invent the English language and I’ve only been using it about seven years longer than my students have, so who am I to tell them that a word in their everyday vocabulary isn’t a real word just because some white guys in Oxford said so? Yet, I know that the placement exam is in Queen’s English, not Kriol.
Is that unfair? Mostly. Did I make the rules? Hell no. Am I playing into the system? Yes, I marked thiefed wrong every time I saw it. I wish I didn’t have to, but for these students to make it to Secondary school I have to.

I think it’s really important to understand and try to work past all of this PostColonial theory crap (the whole purpose of my blog) because the world is still reeling from colonization and has taken for granted most of its bs systems and ways of thinking as the way the world has always worked. However, I’m not going to bear the entire burden of that horrible legacy. I’m a soldier against this crap, not the messiah. I don’t have the answers. By playing into the system I help to prop it up, but I also can be instrumental in tearing it apart from the inside. That’s what I think understanding is all about. Tearing it apart from the inside doesn’t mean I’m not going to ignore all the thiefeds. For me, at this point in my life, I don’t know what it means exactly. But it sure means something good (or bad if you are a colonial oppressor or elite educator).

Whatever the case, if I have to read one more essay about apples, I’m going to thief a gun and shoot myself.