Village Life, a New Year, Thanksgiving, and an Anniversary

This is my first post since moving to the village full-time, and I think I should begin with this morning.

Bright and early this morning, probably around 5:00 am, a certain scream erupted my peaceful dreams. In my initial half-dream state, I was pretty sure someone in the house was screaming at the top of their lungs, "No, I won't! I can't! I won't! No, I won't! I can't! I won't!" It sounded like a fight for one's life. Strange terror gripped my heart at such a horrifying awakening, as slowly my mind processed that it was highly unlikely that someone was screaming in English, and secondly there was only my husband and me in the house, and my husband was only vaguely stirring from the sound of the screaming.

My panic settled and quickly turned into chicken soup anger, as I realized one of our roosters had discovered our place of sleep and placed himself exactly under our partially open window. It was not a scream of danger; he was demanding food! No, I thought to myself, I will not reward screaming chickens. Both my husband and I shielded our ears and refused to give in to the rooster's tantrum for the next eternal half hour. Eventually I heard the faint sounds of huffing and him moving away. We had won and returned to sleep. For some reason, this morning we have been discussing the best timing for our next pot of chicken stew.

Anyhow, as to other updates, Shan people around the world have celebrated the start of a new year: the year 2109! Yes, the Shan have been living in the 22nd century for the last nine years. Look to the Shan to see what lays ahead, young Westerners. Soon you too will enjoy termite delicacies and blood soup. It is only a matter of time... Anyhow, we had a great Shan New Years celebration here in Thoed Thai, though I'm not how sure I got pulled into helping to carry the banner for our neighborhood in the village parade. Nevertheless, a whole lot of people were able to legitimately and openly take my picture, instead of stealthily pretending to play on their phones, facing me, while their cameras made weird flashes. I think my husband vaguely considered charging 20 Baht per photograph (kidding... just kidding). Here are a few highlights...

 The handsomest guy around... :)

The "VIP" truck for very special people who don't mind paying 20,000 Baht to break the rules and annoy the community. 

The stage

 This little guy and his father, in front of the Shan flag, were just too photo-worthy. Sadly, I cannot seem to upload the version, where I fixed the coloring. His dad wanted him to take a photo with me, but he shyly refused.

Getting ready for the parade. Everyone finding their places. 

 Lovely.

No comment. 

These girls all performed in the traditional dancing later.

Almost immediately following Shan New Year, I realized Americans would soon be celebrating Thanksgiving. As I am big on the tradition of eating a large meal for Thanksgiving, I suggested to my husband that we go into Chiang Rai (a city), where we treated ourselves to a grand Japanese lunch, complete with sushi. I'm sure our meal differed slightly from many of our American friends, but we enjoyed it nonetheless. And we were thankful, of course, which was the whole point.

Then yesterday marked a very special day: Mong's and my one year wedding anniversary. To mark it, I made a Thanksgiving feast, which we enjoyed after church with everyone who came. It was a bit of a culinary stretch for most of our guests, but it'll provide them something to tell others about. ;) 

In honor of being married one year and one day, here is a sneak peak of the photos that will soon be uploaded onto Facebook:

A Good Education

As I currently prepare to say goodbye to my wonderful class of second graders and take my first break from teaching in five years, I have been reflecting on what makes a good education. So for those not interested in educational views, skip this post. :)

Here are a few educational myths that I find extremely pervasive and that I wish to leave behind forever.

1. Myth 1: More difficult equates to a better education.
I heard this one reflected when a fellow teacher proudly told me he gives extremely few As. I heard this one reflected when a parent complained that our students have far less homework than their peers at a neighboring school.

Here's the end-all: An excellent education will include the difficult bits, but it will not attempt to make things difficult.

Giving almost no As means the teacher failed to bring almost any students up to an A level of understanding. This does not mean the majority of the class should receive an A, but my goal as a teacher is to create an accurate assessment on what I taught. Very low grades overall is a reflection on either my teaching or a poorly aligned assessment.

Lots of homework=busywork. There's no data supporting that homework helps student achievement.

2. Myth 2: The earlier the better.

If reading at age 6 is good, reading at age 4 is better! If doing multiplication at age 9 is typical, doing multiplication at age 7 is terrific!

Faulty.

There's a reason to the older, slower paces of learning. While some children may be ready earlier and may automatically learn these skills ahead of the game at home with their parents, subjecting all children to these schedules lacks an understanding of child development (I say this after being required to teach multiplication to second graders who haven't had the chance to fully master subtraction with regrouping). Take your time.

3. Good grades are a sign of your child doing well.

Well, no.

They're a sign that the teacher gave the right pieces of paper to the child on which he/she could at least copy or imitate the correct answer/process. A wise teacher creates scenarios in which the child must demonstrate further thinking, but even among the best of teachers, I am skeptical of grades in general. How was the child feeling on the day of an assessment? How did the teacher take the child's answer to form a number grade? Was partial credit given for where the child had the right thinking but only missed on a minor calculation error?

Mostly I am opposed to grades in the elementary school, because I think what most parents are looking for is really information about where their child is succeeding/not succeeding. Numbers just don't give that. An 80% in math doesn't tell a parent that the 20% he/she did poorly on all had to do with fractions. I think assessments and feedback can be done better than numbers, but numbers are easy shortcuts for schools (I feel the draw of them, certainly, because doing away with them would be way more work for me).


What do you all find to be the pervasive myths your encounter daily?

Cameras, Traveling, and Poverty

Lately I've been struggling with the role foreigners, particularly privileged foreigners, play in visiting or living in communities struggling with poverty. For any of us who have been regulars in this struggle, we know there's always a bit of an awkward factor--and there's also the just downright "bad feeling" that comes with it.

It's awkward to be seen has having dollar signs on your forehead, for sure, and then it's simply painful to walk into a house with simple clothes on your back and feel like a queen for what you're wearing.

I think most people who've been involved in development work or simply Christ-centered "downward mobility" have struggled with this. For me, I didn't shop for a time. My clean clothes always had holes. Forget make-up splurges. And still we might feel like royalty. We get asked for money. And it's such a struggle! How do you answer? Maybe you've been offered a baby and there was no legal way to take that child and bring him/her to safety (I was--back before I even knew my husband, and it affected me deeply).

I have often not known what to do, but one thing I felt compelled to do was take pictures. Of children laughing. Of clouds settling far below the mountain peak where I resided. Of gardens, full of vegetables, conveying hope in the midst of trying circumstances. Of fires blazing during the dry season. Of kids studying at school. These were beautiful moments, and I wanted to record them, and I believed that in capturing them I could, perhaps, explain just a bit of the life I'd chosen to those far away.

That's the context for what I need to write and is the source of a great deal of inner turmoil right now.

You see, there's a certain camp for IDPs (internally displaced persons) that my husband has had the privilege of visiting many times. He has also taken doctor teams to the camp to assist the clinic with training or in other various ways.

On a recent visit, a villager in the camp came up to him and said something along the lines of, "Look, I need the money that the last team raised for me."

My husband understood immediately (I wouldn't have) and had to explain to the man that the team had simply enjoyed taking photographs around the village and with people they'd spoken to when they had finished at the clinic.

This man was still quite confused, because, after all, they had taken photos of him. What's the point of all those photographs, in the midst of his poverty, if not to show the world and raise funds? He did not see the potential beauty worth capturing in his surroundings. In fact, he still felt that funds must have been raised, and either the team or my husband was holding it back from him. He had to be reassured a lot.

To my surprise, this was not the first time my husband has dealt with this issue. Apparently in the village we live in (which is far more comfortable than the IDP camp), there had been several similar events. Westerns come, do their thing, then take pictures, and villagers begin hoping for the help that is not coming.

What I realized is that when Westerners have often felt they were capturing a beautiful place, moment, or event, what so many local individuals have felt was an unpleasant exposure, to which they willingly succumbed, because Westerners have represented monetary hope for them.

Of course, it's the postmodern age, and some of these same villagers are also on Facebook. That means, they also see Facebook campaigns from their foreign Facebook "friends" to raise funds for this or that, sometimes individuals persons. Sometimes accompanied by photos.

And my heart broke when my husband said this to me.

Yes, in most of these cases, monetary support is not the best way to help. Really, it's not. And, yes, a major education campaign needs to occur everywhere to stop viewing foreigners as ATMs, but what hope does such a campaign have when Facebook tells them otherwise?

So what about the camera? Here are my requests of those who may visit me (and probably for anyone who visits similar situations), in no particular order:

1. Only take close-up pictures of people you know the names of and think you might loosely call "friends."

2. Do not take pictures immediately following someone telling you of their struggle, previous persecution, pain, or poverty, unless you actually intend to do something to help them. If not, wrong message. Take pictures of JOY.

3. Take pictures of mountains, lakes, clouds, and rice paddies.

4. Take far away silhouette photos of non-recognizable people doing work, which is beautiful and culturally specific, like rice planting or monks gathering alms in the morning.

5. Be upfront about the reasons for your visit (ie. not to raise funds, unless that is the reason, and even then, state what the funds will be used for).

6. Do not post fundraising campaigns for local-to-here situations on Facebook publicly. Use your privacy settings to determine your audience on Facebook.

7. Do not act like an ATM.

8. Tell people if you intend to use their photos and for what.

Most of all, let's keep working on showing deeper respect for the communities in which we find ourselves, understanding that what we may perceive as beauty (such as clothes on a clothesline) might not be understood that way by someone overwhelmed by the painful reality of their situation. Let's be slow to pick up that camera and quick to listen, love, and laugh together.

When I wasn't who the police thought I was...

Right now, I am struggling with just how disturbing the news is. I hear about what is happening in Iraq and Syria at the hands of the Islamic State, and I want to vomit. Then I read the latest new coming out of Ferguson, Missouri, and I want to cry at the reality of race in America.

I don't really know how we're supposed to respond to news of hate, but I do believe, as a follower of Christ--as one who sees reconciliation as quite central to the message of Christ--silence is not an option.

But it's also difficult.

Namely, because I don't live in America, Iraq, or Syria. Moreover, when speaking of America, I am a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Southern girl. Sometimes I feel even ashamed to speak. I don't know how to speak of racial profiling, because I've never experienced anything but the privilege of favorable profiling. Likewise, I feel stunted in my ability to discuss the frustration, anger, and desperation that we see now exploding in Ferguson.

I'm quite simply the wrong person.

Yet as my Facebook wall fires up with mostly compassionate responses toward the residents of Ferguson, there are a few others--mostly from people with whom I grew up--posting angrily. White people. Angry. And it scares me.

Race is complicated, and white people really have few opportunities to experience the full dimensions of its ever-present existence in daily decision making.

There has lately been an old memory that has haunted me a great deal. It's actually a story I usually enjoy telling, and everyone gets a good laugh, but right now it doesn't feel funny.

You see, a few years back, I lived in southern Louisiana, and I frequently made the 14 hour drive from North Carolina (where my parents lived) to my home in Louisiana in a single day. That allowed me more family time, and I was able to get the drive done with all at once.

However, there was a risk to it, because, at that time, there was no available bridge across the Mississippi to the small parish (Louisiana word for "county") where I lived. On the western side of our little segment of the Mississippi was New Roads, my home at the time, and on the eastern side was the much wealthier (and whiter) town of St. Francisville. This meant that at the very end of my drive, I was required to take a ferry from St. Francisville to New Roads. The risk was not leaving early enough and missing the last ferry for the night.

Well, one particular holiday return, I apparently had allowed time to slip by a little too much, and as my car wound through St. Francisville, just miles from my home, I had the heart-sickening realization, I might not make it.

I did what anyone would do: I sped up. Not a lot. But enough. About 10 miles over the speed limit.

I should add that at this point the road I was on could only be going in one direction. In just a couple more miles, it would dead-end at the ferry stop. There was absolutely no other place I could be going. From wealthy St. Francisville. To New Roads.

That was when the lights began to flash behind my car. Shoot, as I glanced ahead, I noticed the speed limit had dropped 10 more miles. My first time ever to be pulled by a cop had to be when I most desperately needed to rush!

I was not afraid, naturally, only frustrated. I did not even notice or pay attention to the fact that I was in a darkened area, where there would be no witnesses to whatever occurred. It did not even strike me as an important detail.

Then as I turned off my car's engine and pushed the break in, I had my first fright.

The police's lights continued blinking and shining, and out of the microphone of the car, I heard the policeman's voice boom, "Will the driver of the car, please, exit the vehicle with the hands in the air!"

Mind you, though I had never been pulled by a police officer before, I had been in the car many times before, and I was well aware I was not being handled normally.

That's when I first realized how dark it was and how the nearest businesses weren't necessarily close enough to be paying any attention. That's when my heart skipped a beat, and I wondered what this officer's intentions were. The officer's orders boomed again. That's when I considered restarting my car and going until I found a well-lit place where others could witness the transaction. But I was also frightened that this man would assume it was a chase.

I was terrified, when I finally complied. I stepped out of the car with my hands in the air, as the officer got out of his car, his hand on his holster.

And then he saw me.

The elderly officer broke into a smile, allowed me to get back into my car to find my documents, and asked me how I was doing. He then quite gently asked me if I had noticed I was going above the speed limit.

I was shaking and terrified. I couldn't transition to his friendly demeanor quite so fast.

The man felt bad for me, when he realized I was trying to catch the ferry so that I could teach in the morning and actually told me to get going again and hurry up.

That was all. No ticket. Nothing.

I was speeding.

But I didn't look like the person rushing to New Roads that he thought I would be. Appearances was all it took to reassure him.

I did, in fact, miss the ferry and spent the night in St. Francisville, rising quite early to cross on the ferry the next morning and meet my students at the school.

Usually when I tell this story, using just the right intonation and a wave of my left eyebrow, everyone cracks up at the point where the officer saw me. I mean, I'm this small little blonde-haired teacher with my hands in the air. It is funny.

Except when it's not.

What if I had been someone else? A different teacher? What if I looked different?

Don't get me wrong, I don't think the officer would have shot me, but... The problem with life is that it's full of split-instant decisions, in which quick observations, inform us, accurately or inaccurately, what situation we're in. In my case, before he saw my face, where I was coming from and where I was headed in had frightened him enough to demand I exit my car with my hands in the air. My face, however, quickly cleared me of guilt. What if it had not?

I've always wondered about that. I know it would not have gone so easily that evening.

Right now, this memory is fresh as I look at the frustration and fear exploding out of Ferguson. I can never know what it feels like to fear police daily, because my face has always exempted me from any extra scrutiny by police. I can't know, but I also can't accept how very ignorant to this sort of treatment white Americans sometimes are. Yes, we can't really know, but we can see bits and pieces of it upon occasion, and it ought to be enough to horrify us and inspire only the deepest compassion and a desire to work to see things change. And it must inform our understanding of what is happening.

There's a great article on The Guardian about what's happening in Ferguson and riots in general that I recommend reading: Check it out. Just don't be silent. And think about that anger.

That time I balanced a cake while sitting side saddle

Last night around midnight, I had one of those "Aha" moments, where I thought to myself, "I think I can possibly write about my current ordinariness." I also thought to myself, this makes me that Westerner--who think it's funny to write about ordinary events. Okay, forgive me.

You see, I was at that moment sitting side-saddle on the back of a motorbike that my husband was driving, slipping and sliding over a muddy path, with my weekend bag, my purse, and a carrot cake (which I am quite proud of having made) on my lap--that is without tupperware... In fact, the carrot cake was still on its ceramic dish, with a plastic bowl over it and a grocery bag wrapped around the whole thing. Then there was the enormous bag of blankets and linens, as well as the computer bag, between my husband's feet, which he balanced while driving, in addition to the bananas and grapes in the front basket. We relatively comfortably slid our way through the muddy path and under frighteningly low electrical lines, made our way to the church, and were in bed not too far after midnight.

I am writing about it now, because until the moment when I thought of all of you, who might read this, it had not occurred to me that it was all that strange of an event. I mean, there was the part about it being midnight, and our evening had not exactly been planned this way. Certainly, it's not how every Friday night goes. So, in all those ways it was unusual, but it felt only normally unusual--not particularly daring or the least absurd... until I thought of you all.

The lead up to that moment was that we were helping a young woman in the church, who had been renovating her father's house. She'd asked us to pick up a truckload of furniture for her on our way up to the village yesterday. We did, little knowing that our truck would, several hours later, get stuck on the road to her house. This led to an amusing burst of help from rather tipsy neighbors and family (and thankfully some sober help as well), who helped carry all the quite heavy furniture to her house. Meanwhile, without thinking twice about it really, we left the truck in the road and traded it for the young woman's motorbike to get home. We emptied the truck of all the belongings we'd need, piled them high on ourselves/the motorbike and took off back to the church. Naturally, I was still in my meticulate professional dress, which I had worn in the morning to teach--hence the sitting side saddle.

My approach might easily have been one of annoyance, but I really have all of you to thank for changing that. When I thought of you all, I just suddenly felt like such a dare devil on an adventure that I positively wanted to laugh at the absurd image of my husband and me on that bike, with all that stuff, in that midst of that midnight, at that time of night! So thank you for transforming such an ordinary moment into one of excitement and intrigue! It is therefore in honor of you and out of gratitude that I have written this entirely frivolous blog post. Hopefully you smiled at the mental image anyway.

Now, let's hope we get the truck out!

When violence takes someone...

These days I am in a quiet (if busy) phase of life. I no longer live in an IDP (internally displaced persons) camp and have to face the realities of displaced peoples daily. I no longer teach in a center for migrant workers, who face daily discrimination and insecurity. I no longer listen weekly to the tales of horror coming out of Arakhan State and the violence in Kachin and Shan States. (Go here to be educated on those realities.)

Instead, I spend my time teaching an adorable group of 25 second graders, mastering the art of sourdough bread-making (go ahead and ask me about wild yeast and my absolute excitement over this kind of bread making!), looking up recipes for fermenting vegetables, and falling in love with my husband more everyday. Like I said, it's kind of quiet. Maybe old-fashioned even. Rather restful. And definitely quite normal, for a girl whose adult life has been usually led in rather not-so-normal locations.

I think it's given this backdrop of not being surrounded by violent situations anymore that I am coming to process the violent deaths of two different friends.

[NOTE: I am not including my friends' names, as there will be already, unfortunately, far too many Google results regarding their deaths now, instead of their lives.]

Both friends are individuals with whom I had lost contact after a few years, and neither had ever been in my closest circle of friends, yet a few good conversations sealed the label "friend" years ago. One was a good friend for a summer during Teach for America's training institute, but when we were placed in distant schools, that friendship never really progressed further. The other I spent a year living and working with in high school as a Page for Congress. That's enough for a connection. Within a short time of each other, the first was murdered by her boyfriend, and the second committed suicide.

Both were far, far too young to die.

There will probably never be any great words of wisdom that come of out of such violence (I learned that years ago when first finding myself immersed in the pain of an IDP camp), and so this post is not about that. What it is about is connecting.

Upon reflection on the sudden loss of these two beautiful individuals, I've realized there are many people that I respect, cherish, and love, with whom I no longer connect regularly, due to distance and life circumstances. There are people I would call even close friends, with whom I rarely speak anymore. High school friends. College friends. Friends of other life circumstances.

So, friends of so many different life phases, here's what I want to say to you: I cherish you.

I may not always know how or when to reach out to you, and I know that a long-distance friend from a past life is not the same as a friend in your current here-and-now, but I do cherish you.

Moreover, I respect you. You became my friend, because I respect who you are--the person God created you to be.

We live in a violent world, where we are not guaranteed a tomorrow ever. Random violence, sickness, or accidents could take any one of us today. Yet for both of my friends, who have now left this world as very young women, as far as I understand, the circumstances that led to their deaths were not new. In light of this, all I can think to ask right now, friends, is that you not give up--that you refuse to see yourself as trapped in any situation. You're not stuck, and if you're struggling right now, there's more to this great, big world than pain. Take the steps, any steps, to get help and move beyond the painful circumstances that can trap you.

Meanwhile, let's make sure we love each other thoroughly. We've got today to give out every drop of love possible. I'm going to attempt that, and meanwhile, I'm also writing some of those dear friends that I haven't heard from in a while. A little encouragement goes a long ways during the dark nights of our souls.

Married life!

Okay, so I am officially the worst blogger ever. I have on several occasions to started to build up something of a readership, semi-freaked out that so many people wanted to know what I was saying (made doubly speechless and confused when people I knew began discussing particular blog entries in front of me), and disappeared until my readership had dwindled comfortably down.

The most pointed example of my status as worst-blogger-ever is the fact that I quit blogging right before my wedding and failed to blog at all again for the next eight months. A wedding. It's the kind of thing that bloggers that actually want people to read what they write really like. Because people like weddings. And wedding photos. And sentimentality.

And I just don't get it all. That's not what I want exposed all over the internet. That's not what I want to draw people to my writing.

I have blogged off and on for some time, because it connects me to people far away. I also enjoy expressing some of the things that I am thinking about. But here's the reality: I don't know how to discuss my writing. Ever. And when I get afraid that people will actually want me to discuss my writing, it tends to leave the blog. Not that I ever stop writing. That's impossible for me. It just doesn't show up in blog form any more.

But... lest anyone think my general silence (mostly from the time I first began dating my now-husband) is due to unhappiness, here's a few of my reflections on married life.

It's good. It's two people. It's warm. It's waking up next to my best friend. It's being understood. It's being misunderstood. It's choosing love every day. It's choosing to focus on some things and overlook other things. It's closeness and intimacy. It's kindness. It's grace.

It seems people are particularly curious about the multicultural aspect of our married life, because it seemingly sets us apart from so many couples. Without a doubt, bringing our cultural styles of communication into our married life has required grace, patience, and understanding. Yet, I still have this on-going theory that we misunderstand each other about as much as the average couple; we just *know* we're multicultural and therefore are more prone to apply grace in the moment. Don't we all grow up in distinctly different family cultures with unique styles of communication and different expectations? Doesn't everyone have to work through forming yet another culture whenever we embark with another person, from another family, in creating a brand new family unit?

As I said earlier, marriage is being understood and misunderstood. I think that's part of why God gave us marriage. There are deep, deep lessons to be learned in the give and take that comes from this process. And there's extraordinary intimacy that comes when we choose someone that we cannot in the moment understand. (I am not speaking of language now. I am speaking of the infinite number of things that we do in our way, which we can never explain why truly... or, at least, explanations make no sense to another.)

And the other side of multicultural marriages... oh, the richness! Seeing the world from another perspective. Seeing my own country and culture from another perspective. Speaking a language at home that is different from the languages we use outside the home for daily business. Comparing the international news in two languages (worth doing!). Absorbing values from each other that our own cultures have neglected.

That being said, I married a gem of a man. Some days I wake up and still cannot believe this can all be real. The kindness and gentleness I experience from my husband makes it impossible to imagine any other life. And I don't intend to quit saying these things about him. He's a good man--the best even--and I am extraordinarily blessed.

Wishing you all the best from Lampang, Thailand!