Education Philosophy: When two worlds collide, Part #1

When you travel literally across the world as a Peace Corps volunteer, it’s my opinion that you’ve got to have two key expectations:

1)  Peace Corps will change me, I want to be changed.

and

2) I will change the world, however minuscule, for the better.

It’s the Spring of my second year, and about 98% of the people I came with (who made the two years) will be leaving this summer.  As our Close of Service (COS) conference fast approaches, people make plans to visit and I make plans to visit people who’s sites I’ve never gotten to see, it’s clear that this summer is going to be filled with a lot of reflection.

Before coming to Kazakhstan I knew that being a Peace Corps volunteer was going to challenge and change me in ways I couldn’t imagine.  One of those ways has been undeniably my philosophy regarding education.

When I was studying in University there were two gen ed requirements that terrified me: maths.  After meeting with my advisor, completely terrified in my Senior year, she pointed out two classes that my quite liberal college offered:  Math for Non-Majors and Practical Mathematics.  I was the kid who hid her math homework under her bed all through middle school, and the kid who sucked up to the math teachers obsessively to pass in High School.  To this day, the very idea of mathematics in an academic setting is enough to make my stomach flop (something I’d better get over, as the GRE is lurking around the corner).

Math for Non-Majors and Practical Mathematics were night classes because the professor was an engineer who worked full-time and GM, and loved teaching mathematics so much that in her free-time she came and taught us.  Keep in mind, this woman wasn’t teaching a bunch of engineers who had three kinds of graphing calculators and various rulers in triangle shapes.  Oh no.  She taught two long math classes a week to people like me.  People who want to cry if they find a letter mixed in their math problems.  Seriously, let’s keep the letters where they belong- in history, science, English- anything but math!

Utterly terrified, I showed up that first day, hundreds of dollars worth of over-priced textbooks in my book bag, ready to a) cry or b) throw a tantrum about the injustice of it all.

Then, this woman with absolutely Einstein-esque hair, a ridiculous shade of frosted pink lipstick and a terribly professional pantsuit plus heels waltzed into the room.  Her personality matched her hair- she had me at that first bouffant hello.

Two days a week we foraged into matrices, parabolas, and yes, letters in our math equations.  What was different?  Three things.

1)  She didn’t rule with an iron fist.  She didn’t care if you were working full-time and just didn’t have time to get the homework done, or if you burst out in an explosion of confusion over a sly X that you couldn’t solve for.  In sort, she was cool about it. She accepted that not everyone’s forte was mathematics.

2) All of the math she taught- every bit- was supported by a little bit of history about the development of the math and the reason this type of equation or proof was so important.   We figured out how much weight a bridge could support, gas mileage, a famous pitcher’s ball velocity- you name it, but it was interesting for people who ordinarily didn’t find numbers interesting.

3) We were required to teach math to the class as a whole.  Why?  Because when you teach something you have to demonstrate a comprehension beyond the typical regurgitation in most college subjects.  You have to show that you are confidant – and you have to grow into that feeling.

In a way, what happened in that classroom were like my intentions for my Peace Corps service.  One, I was changed.  Math no longer made me want to lie down in front of the nearest semi-truck.  Two, I helped other people- suddenly people were asking me (moi! men! ya!) to help them.  And you know what I found out?  I could help them.  Talk about empowering.

So when I came to Kazakhstan, I really had three major education philosophies, or so I thought.  One, I should be approachable, fun and genuine.  Two, I should always teach and infuse why what I was teaching was relevant. And three, that I should give my student the opportunity to showcase their knowledge and confidence to other students.

Thus far, have I been overly successful with those guidelines?  Has my philosophy changed?

Part #2 to come after Skymkent and this holiday break: My Intentions vs. Reality.

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Classic Bolshevick Romance, or, Things I Learn Over Tea

I spend way too much time with my neighbors.  So much time in fact, I’ve begun to become familiar with every member of their family (if you learn anything about Kazakh families, learn this: they are HUGE).

This past month, my ‘Kazakh-father’s’ ethnic-Kazakh mother and father came up to Zhanatas from Uzbekistan.  Many Kazakh people actually live in Kyrgyzstan or Uzbekistan or any number of post-soviet union countries. Nazerbyev, Kazakhstan’s president, famously called for all ‘Kazakhs’ to come home to their ‘mother land’ and provided heavy incentives like very generous pensions, and child birth rewards which starkly contrast Uzbekistan’s population control (give birth to 5 children, get a bronze metal, give birth to 9, get gold!).   Kazakhstan also has an ‘up and coming’ international profile, while Uzbekistan is still pinned under the heavy ramifications of the Soviet era.

Kazakhs are notoriously racist against  their Uzbek counterparts (or perhaps I should say relations are consistently strained), a sentiment Uzbeks are more than happy to echo (in fact, if you’re interested in a PCV perspective, check out this blog of the ONLY Uzbek-speaking Peace Corps Volunteer in Kazakhstan).

My ‘host mother’s’ family recently  immigrated to Kazakhstan from Uzbekistan and they’re living quite high on the horse in, raking in a joint-pension of over 100,000 tenge a month, a small fortune especially in a place like Zhanatas.  While they had to give up sheep and horses and only take what they could fit in the baggage portion of a bus, they don’t want for anything any longer.

With the announcement that my host father’s family was coming up, I couldn’t help but be curious.  Who were these ethnic Kazakh people that chose to stay in Uzbekistan when they could be living in Kazakhstan?

The grandmother was like every other Kazakh woman over the age of fifty.  Bent and wobbly, she wears layer after layer of clothing to protect herself from the cold that leeches off her body.  Her hands are gnarled, cliche or not, and she grasps at the constant cup of tea in her hands like it’s the last thing keeping her attached to this world.

She’s also blind, and to my horror, her husband of 40 years kept making nasty remarks about how ‘bad’ of a wife she was, so ‘useless.’  Let’s just say I’ve invited her to my place a lot for tea.

And it was over just such a tea that she told me her story of falling in love, and why they live in Uzbekistan.  I’m going to attempt to tell it to you as best and as accurately as I can, but some of the charm of the Kazakh language is probably  lost in translation.

Like the old women we both are at heart, the two of us began the conversation by commiserating about the state of the youth today (I, in particular, take issue with the ‘hammer pants’ the kids get away with wearing in the city or sometimes outside of school).

“When I was young,” she told me, “in Uzbekistan, things were different.  You listened, you were obedient.  You had to be.”  She sort of cackled, showing off her four remaining teeth, one of which is gold.  I reached over and refilled her little bowl of tea, the hot liquid sluicing over the tea spoon.  “Being in love, now that was hard – no phones, no secret meetings.  My mother, now she was strict.”

I of course smiled and slightly nodded, making the soft ‘mmm’ noise under my breath that means I’m listening and interested.

“Acet and I went through school together.  I was ‘A’ class, and he was ‘V;’ I loved him long before he noticed me.”  Her hand went to the huge bun of bound-up grey hair at the back of her neck covered by a married woman’s scarf.  “Finally in 9th form he noticed me, and told me he loved me and that he would kidnap me and take me away.”

Bride nappings are very common in my part of southern Kazakhstan, so the idea is no longer a shock or cause for pause.

She continued, “But I told him I wanted to leave school first (graduate), and if he loved me he would wait.”  Her lips, literally scored with wrinkles, pressed against the edge of her cup to drink tea as she thought, her eyes the misty white of the blind or near-blind.  “We arranged all of this in school, on notes between the two of us.  The teachers were strict, and back then  girls had modesty.”

I nodded agreeably, taking a sip from my own bowl of black tea, my fingers wrapped comfortably around the circular shape for warmth.

“But then he had to go to the army, and I thought my heart would break.  It was summer, and I couldn’t see him expect to go on a walk with my mother – she was smart, she wouldn’t let me walk alone in the early evening – and even when I did see him I couldn’t say hello.”  Another pause, another bend of her head to the little bowl of chai.  “Acet used to throw rocks at the window, and I would try and go out to meet him.  But once my mother caught us, and then she would stand every night by the window, her arms crossed, until I was safely tucked into my bed on the floor.”

I laughed slightly, commenting under my breath: “Smart woman.”  Her crackling laugh echoed mine.

“I would pretend to go to sleep, and wait and wait until she was asleep too, and then go to the window.  He was always there waiting, until the day he had to leave.  I told my mother I was going to my grandmother’s and I went to the station to see him off.  I cried, and he laughed- men are like that.”

I nodded the obligatory agreement accompanied by the soft ‘mmm’ in the back of my throat.

“After training he got to come home for a month.  And that is when he took me away and we were married.  It was romantic.  But then he left again and we would write letters and once a week I would go to the Post Office at a certain time and wait my turn to talk on the one telephone our village had.  He would tell me how much he loved me, and he wanted me – and I would tell him about his mother and his family and then our time would be up.  Eight minutes.”

Like young women of most Central Asian countries, she lived with her husband’s family, taking care of their every need like a second-class citizen.

“When he left that first time I became pregnant but the baby died.  It happened like that even after he came home.  I couldn’t find who I was anymore – I was lost.  We lost four.  He wasn’t like other husbands, he didn’t blame me too much.  He was good to me.  Then, when Shooak was born there was great rejoicing.  And after him came four others, healthy.”

I couldn’t and still can’t imagine the weight of losing four children, especially in a culture where fertility problems are blamed directly on woman for something they’ve done, like not wearing shoes or sitting on the floor.

“Now three of my babies live here, in Kazakhstan,” she said.  “But five of my babies are still in Uzbekistan.  I belong with them.  I belong there.”

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Reeking Optimism: Cutting the Damn Plastic Off the Windows

Today, the 8th of March, is International Women’s Day.  While this holiday was initially intuited by the Soviet Union in 1911, it’s now celebrated the world over.  Initially intended to encourage and celebrate the working women, the 8th of March is celebrated all over the world as a civil awareness and anti-sexism day.

In Kazakhstan this mean all males with whom you have a close relationship (friend, husband, classmate etc) must buy you a mandatory present.  This year I have been the obliging recipient of 3 silk flowers, a mirror with a vampire hologram and some very, very stinky perfume.  Also, if you’re ever in Kazakhstan on the 8th of March, don’t forget the mandatory:  ‘Happy Holiday!’ to every human being with a uterus who walks by you.

In perhaps my own personal act of freedom and rebellion, yours truly has done something simply unheard of.  I ripped the winter plastic off my windows.  Then I opened them.  It felt so, so good.  Finally I have liberated my self from the Kazakhstani winter that always seems to get me down.  True it may be a delusion that winter is over, but I don’t care, today was Women’s Day, and I say it’s time to take the plastic down.

Hopefully I feel as good about this decision tonight as I do right now.  If not, there’s always more blankets right?

I have a bunch of news!  I will be extending my service an additional 8 months, and will be home mid-July 2012.  I’m going to be PCVL (Peace Corps Volunteer Leader) of the southern Oblasts, which basically means helping other volunteers with anything they might need, and communicating directly with Peace Corps about what’s going on afield.

Also, schools ends May 25th- and then I’m out of Zhanatas forever!  I’ll be moving to Taraz, a mid-sized city about 3 hours from where I live current and the oblast center.  A bunch of volunteers I adore live there or close, and I’m going to have three new amazing jobs on top of my PCVL responsibilites.

First, I’ll be teaching in college at Parasat, which from the people I’ve asked has quite the reputation as a good school to study English.

Then, I’m going to working at a PDI, or Professorial Development Institute, which means I’ll be helping teach methodologies, strategies and English materials.  This is really exciting, because I won’t only be working with English teachers- I will be working with teachers in general!  This is such a neat opportunity for me, and a great way to get even better at speaking Kazakh.  It’s also a huge vote of confidence in my language from the PDI.  I couldn’t be happier.

Lastly, and most amazingly, I’m going to work at a lyceum for orphans.   They requested Peace Corps help because there are a select group of orphans who want to study abroad and have reached the local teacher’s English limits.  These kids are incredibly motivated and have dreams that rival even mine.  I am so, so excited to help them!

Top all this great news off with getting back from India and being crazy in love.

Yeah, I ripped the plastic off the windows.

It’s gonna be sunny.

 

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Meet the Jones: An Introduction to my Kazakh family.

Almost every day I waltz up a few flights of stairs to my neighbor’s apartment.  I’m there a lot- they invite me over, we drink tea, eat Besbarmak or watch Turkish soap operas dubbed in Kazakh.  For my part I bring strange new foods, ideas and topics to tea.  I figure it’s a fair trade.  They’re essentially my host family except that I can go home when it’s all over, lock the door and eat really, really spicy food.   It’s a pretty good deal.

There’s a father, who I call ‘Shoo-ak  A-guy’ (Teacher Shooak), Taxi driver and car part salesman.  He’s a big man, especially by Kazakh standards, he’s over 6 feet tall and he has the big booming voice.  Unlike the majority of Kazakh men I know he’s soft and gentle despite his size and voice, and he’s really a very funny man.  He is the only man I’ve ever seen affectionately kiss his wife in this country.

Then there’s the stay-at-home mother, ‘Eye-so-loo  Ap-kay’ (Big sister Aysolu).  All Kazakh women are size -2 until they have children and then they turn into these amorphous shapes, women that seem to be one size all over.  Life is harder here, so 30 looks like 45, and 45 looks like 60.  I don’t know how old she is, and she’d tell me if I’d ask, but American manners are too ingrained in me and it’d feel weird to ask.

Then come the kids.  The oldest boy, tall and lean is soft spoken and kind.  His name is ‘Shun-a-bek,’ he is studying to be an electrician at the local college and he is someone I would honestly let my sister date (and in this culture that is saying something).

Then there’s ‘Ma-ral.’  She’s also studying in college to become something to do with painting, but I don’t really understand what.  She’s very fashionable, wears way too much make-up and is quite pretty.  She’s also really funny.

Third is ‘Now-rez.’  Nauryez is usually a boy’s name, but in this case she’s a girl, studying in the 8th form.  She reminds me of my youngest sister Kate: she’s a little bit rough-and-tumble, a lot of fun, and very funny.

Lastly there’s a boy, his name is ‘Ahs-ul-zhan.’  He is everything that a embodies a typical Kazakh boy: snotty, smart-assed, leading three girls on at once and expect me to do his homework.  In a word: annoying, but somehow at times sweet.

I’m really greatful for these neighbors, they make my life in Zhanatas a little more sane and a little more comfortable.

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India

Because I feel like something should be posted about visiting India (but also in the interest of keeping guilty parties names out of things) I’ve decided to simply say the following:

India was fabulous.  On every level.

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