Adult ESL Does Occasionally Have Its Advantages, Too...

like drinking beer at our end-of-the-year class party.

FYI, my students did throw me a wonderful party yesterday, complete with TWO cakes (there was apparently some miscommunication about whose responsibility that was), lots of food and even a few presents. They sang to me twice (once for each cake), and practiced writing "Happy Birthday" in their notebooks. A good time was had by all.

Of Course, I Could Be Completely Wrong

The coolest thing happened today. As you may know, Thursday is my birthday, and I've suspected now for about a week that my students are planning something for me. I've suspected this because, when they chatter away in Hmong during break, the conversations have been peppered with more "nai khues" than usual ("teacher") AND they frequently all turn and look at me at the same time. I'm pretty sure I heard Yer say "birthday" a couple of times, but that is questionable, since I also thought she said "potato" when she was really saying "hospital."

Today they started in again and--in this strange Pentecostal moment--I actually understood what they were talking about. I don't mean I understood everything, or that I wasn't assisted by some contextual clues like gesturing and more synchronized looks in my directions, but I realized that I knew they were planning a party for me on Thursday, and that they were making plans as to who was bringing what and when they were going to surprise me. I understood enough key words here and there to piece together the plan, and, in a crazy way, I felt bad. They have always been rest assured that I don't understand a word that they say in Hmong, and all of a sudden I'm on to their birthday surprise. Some recognition must have shown on my face, because suddenly they all stopped talking and Ying said to me,

"Teacher, you understand?"

They have never, ever asked me that before, and I was both embarrassed and proud at the same time.

"A little," I said honestly with a smile. They all smiled back at me, and for the millionth time since I've been doing this job, I was aware of what an insignificant barrier a little language difference is.

Exegesis on a Title

I decided, after a year and a half of blogging, that I should give the blog a name. The switch from modblog to blogger seemed the appropriate time.

The first name I thought of was "Annecdotes." I actually thought of this months ago, but spelling posed a problem. If I called it "Annecdotes," people who don't know my first name might just think I am a bad speller. If I left out the second "n," the pun might be too obscure. I thought of hyphenating, but, well, as if the idea weren't cheesy enough...

Then the other day the phrase "that's all she wrote" somehow got into my head, kind of like when a song plays over and over in your mind and you can't shake it (this actually happened to me when we went to Thailand; 'One Night in Bangkok' was my silent theme song for an entire 10 days. Admittedly, this was an improvement from the song that plagued me for three months, when I spent the summer of 2002 in San Fran with then-boyfriend, Mark: 'If You're Going to San Francisco, Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair.' To quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up).

Anyway, my grandma used to say "that's all she wrote" after telling me a story about "old times" and I always wondered about the curious pronoun. Who was "she?" I will forever associate the phrase with my grandma's storytelling, and, though I hesitate to compare my stories about middle school and my garden to my grandma's stories about the joys and hardships of living 97 years, in a way, our stories serve the same purpose: to share our lives with people we care about. It seems to me that "she" is anyone who wants to tell a story, and it suggests a halting end, which does describe the nature of a blog that contains mostly unrelated stories with minimal flow. I've hesitated to settle on a title lest I feel constrained by it; this title even allows me to quit blogging gracefully and eloquently when I decide it's time.

All that, and, I think it just sounds cool.

MPL

I'm so thrilled to live in a city where the opening of a new library draws a predicted crowd of 20,000 people (and the traffic jams in the children's section, especially around the live Captain Hook, suggest to me that the number was probably pretty accurate), a huge stage with live music, food vendors and lines to check out books that seemed miles long. While the heavy marketing helped remind me why I decided not to pursue library science, as a patron I was admittedly enchanted.

ESL Does Occasionally Have Its Disadvantages

Every so often I find a book that is so delicious that I force myself to read it slowly, rationing one chapter every few days so that I delay its inevitable conclusion. My current love is “Mai Pen Rai Means Never Mind” by Carol Hollinger, the American wife of a foreign service worker who spent two years in Thailand in the 60s. It is brilliantly written, full of hilarity and wit that rivals even David Sedaris, whom I worship. If I were still teaching 8th grade language arts, the mileage that I could get out of these essays would be phenomenal—tone, style, voice, satire, cultural awareness, great story-telling—I could create an entire semester course based on this book. I long to share it with my current students who spent their lives in Thailand, but here is how I predict the conversation would go:

Me: So, I just finished this very funny book about Thailand.

Students: Teach-ah, what is ‘just’?

Me: Uh, yesterday. I finished this very funny book yesterday.

Students: Teach-ah, funny?

Me: No, not me. The book. The book is very funny.

Students: Oh, book, funny very very.

Me: Yes, it’s about Thailand.

Students: Teach-ah like Thailand?

Me: Oh yes. But I really like this book. It’s very funny.

Students: Oh, teach-ah like.

And so on. So I savor Hollinger’s writing alone. I might fantasize about teaching it, but the truth is, there aren’t any farting or kissing scenes, so I might be delusional thinking that the middle schoolers would appreciate it anyway.

I Thought Someone Would At Least Bring Cookies

It was because of neon pink flyer in our mailbox that Mark and I found ourselves in a stranger’s garage, underneath a metal sign that said “Marine Parking Here, All Others Towed,” sandwiched between an elderly man with hearing aids and a middle-aged guy sporting a dirty fishing cap that pictured a mosquito underneath the words “Bite Me.”

The scenario: a rental house at the end of our block is suspected of being used for drug trafficking, and the shooting last week (accidental, apparently, but still) prompted the neighborhood watch to call an emergency meeting with the Crime Prevention specialist from our precinct. It was just like CSI I tell you, albeit without any evidence. Also unlike CSI, nothing got solved in an hour, and now I’m scared to death to have Daniel and Erik’s backyard barbeque here next month for fear of a rash of 911 calls concerned about unfamiliar vehicles parked on the block.