I was standing in the lunch line today with a bunch of little kids. Usually I use my Teacher Power and cut in front of whoever is nearest the trays and silverware, but today my lessons ended early and I had nowhere else to be but in line with the cheeky little Czech youngsters. One kid cut in front of me, and immediately the one ahead of him turned around, pointed at him and started jabbering at me in Czech. I assumed the intended accusation was to see whether I would do anything about said cutter or not. I said "It's okay" in English. That gave me away. "Učitelka?" (Teacher?)
"Ano. Anglicky." (Yes. English.)
...jabber jabber jabber...
"Učitelka?"
"Jo. Jsem z Ameriky." (Yeah. I'm from America.) BAH!!! Eruption. Ten small children turned around, wide-eyed and suddenly hysterical. I was an instant celebrity. Apparently they had heard about me--or at least about someplace called America. One lad kept asking me the only English phrase he knew: "What is your name?"
"My name is Ms. Roe. What is your name?"
"My name is Jan." Silence. "What is your name?" Sigh.
...jabber jabber jabber... They asked me questions I couldn't understand. "Česky? Česky?" (Czech? Do you speak Czech?)
"Nerozumim. Ne Česky." (I don't understand. No Czech.)
"Česky?"
"NE."
...jabber jabber jabber... More questions. I shook my head. They kept asking questions, only this time louder and slower. "I still nerozumim. Ner!O!Zu!Mim!" Kid, it doesn't matter. I don't speak Czech, no matter how slowly or loudly you speak, and I am most certainly not stupid, which I know is what you're thinking. And now your little brain is infected with, "All Americans must be stupid. They can't understand me." It's not AmeriCAN, it's AmeriCAN'T. Ah, me. Thus are stereotypes born. Alas. Attempt at gaining favor with the young'uns = Fail. I'll stick to befriending the lunch ladies. I get extra dumplings from them.
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Saturday 12 September 2009
Calling All Onions
Last night I went to a bonfire at a Czech cottage.
Homemade guacamole. "Healthy" water. Canned bamboo. Fresh grilled fish. Tiramisu. Guitardrumskazooharmonicavoices.
It was the music that was the connector. These people, these free-for-all bonfire-ers... all we needed was an out-of-tune guitar, and life could start, could include all of us, regardless of backgrounds, views, stories, lifestyles, beliefs. We sang OutKast, Dispatch, Beatles, Jason Mraz, Paul Simon. We sang everything we knew, everything we didn't know but didn't care a lick about it anyways because who needs lyrics when you've at least got the music? Until now I have taken it so much for granted. The piano lessons we plodded through for so many years, the endless choirs and concerts we sang in, the tinkering around with the guitar (the most beautiful tool of procrastination known to man)--it all has new meaning. Right now, my dad is singing on my iTunes, right along with Elizabeth Hunnicutt and Damien Rice. I have taken what belonged to one home and transplanted it in another, and miraculously, it fits. It is a connector in every culture. It is transient, real, truth.
The music, the people, the day-to-day-ness that life has drifted into--it makes this place feel right. Everyday I walk home from school, exhausted but full. The leaves are just barely beginning to turn here. Last year I saw those first few colors as I drove down a lonely county highway in the middle of Minnesota, going to a high school volleyball tournament. How is it that I see those same colors, see that same change, 4,500 miles away, and still feel right? We are not so different, you know.
I think God may have modeled humans after onions. That top layer--the appearance of it, which is also the thinnest, mind you--is peeled off easily. In fact, it even falls away, crumbles at a touch. The deeper layers--the stories, the experiences, the cultures--they have a little more solidity to them. But the core of the onion is the thickest, and the most potent. Do you not cry when you slice through an onion? If you peel the layers off one by one, the tears do not start until you get much further in. The soul of the onion is what makes us weep in earnest.
Maybe this is the reason I travel. I want to see if there are other onions out there like me. And what I have found so far in my short life is this: American onions, Czech onions, British onions, Thai onions--they all have that same potent center, that connecting "something" that has no sufficient definition. In my opinion, it is a Connection by which we were created. The same One who created onions, created guacamole, created music and souls and connections and life.
Homemade guacamole. "Healthy" water. Canned bamboo. Fresh grilled fish. Tiramisu. Guitardrumskazooharmonicavoices.
It was the music that was the connector. These people, these free-for-all bonfire-ers... all we needed was an out-of-tune guitar, and life could start, could include all of us, regardless of backgrounds, views, stories, lifestyles, beliefs. We sang OutKast, Dispatch, Beatles, Jason Mraz, Paul Simon. We sang everything we knew, everything we didn't know but didn't care a lick about it anyways because who needs lyrics when you've at least got the music? Until now I have taken it so much for granted. The piano lessons we plodded through for so many years, the endless choirs and concerts we sang in, the tinkering around with the guitar (the most beautiful tool of procrastination known to man)--it all has new meaning. Right now, my dad is singing on my iTunes, right along with Elizabeth Hunnicutt and Damien Rice. I have taken what belonged to one home and transplanted it in another, and miraculously, it fits. It is a connector in every culture. It is transient, real, truth.
The music, the people, the day-to-day-ness that life has drifted into--it makes this place feel right. Everyday I walk home from school, exhausted but full. The leaves are just barely beginning to turn here. Last year I saw those first few colors as I drove down a lonely county highway in the middle of Minnesota, going to a high school volleyball tournament. How is it that I see those same colors, see that same change, 4,500 miles away, and still feel right? We are not so different, you know.
I think God may have modeled humans after onions. That top layer--the appearance of it, which is also the thinnest, mind you--is peeled off easily. In fact, it even falls away, crumbles at a touch. The deeper layers--the stories, the experiences, the cultures--they have a little more solidity to them. But the core of the onion is the thickest, and the most potent. Do you not cry when you slice through an onion? If you peel the layers off one by one, the tears do not start until you get much further in. The soul of the onion is what makes us weep in earnest.
Maybe this is the reason I travel. I want to see if there are other onions out there like me. And what I have found so far in my short life is this: American onions, Czech onions, British onions, Thai onions--they all have that same potent center, that connecting "something" that has no sufficient definition. In my opinion, it is a Connection by which we were created. The same One who created onions, created guacamole, created music and souls and connections and life.
Wednesday 2 September 2009
Perspectives
Photo 1: Charles Bridge by night (Prague)
Photo 2: My teammate and I on the train to Karlovy Vary (a spa town) for my birthday
Photo 3: Prague skyline
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