Lessons learned from my first weeks as a camp music teacher, 3rd form (7-8 year-old) assistant English teacher, and English language club teacher: 1) Ray Charles, “C is for Cookie,” and gospel songs work for all ages and are enjoyed even if the students don’t know any English beyond “hello,” while “Why Do You Build Me Up?” and “The Ants Go Marching” require either stereo accompaniment or English fluency, and preferably both. 2) Children have the supernatural ability to not only sense a ball’s presence at the bottom of a bag, but also to pass this knowledge to one another faster than sound. They can then beg to play with it in repeated harmonized whines specially tuned to grate the ears, mind, and soul. 3) If a visual aid doesn’t move or include more than one color, then kids won’t look at it. 4) Come to class/club/camp with at least four back-up games in case every carefully planned activity spontaneously combusts due to the combined catalysts of classrooms lacking a blackboard, too many/few students, and boys/girls beating up the other boys/girls. 5) When possible, bring a translator. Without one you run the risk of facing an entire classroom of uncomprehending but expectant stares as you try to explain the directions of a game for the fourth time using toddler Turkmen and charades that only induce giggles and no new understanding.
Despite some hitches, the first two weeks of intensive teaching technical training (translation: sink or swim classroom instruction with bi-weekly “hub days” where we learn how we could have taught better four days before) have gone very well. My kids have their colors, numbers (even out of sequence!), and introductions down pat and they come running to give me hugs from three streets away. A lifetime terror of children as a race has only lessened slightly after getting to know them better, but their beaming faces after getting positive reinforcement on an answer (Turkmen teachers generally don’t say “good job”) remind me why I’m here.
In other news, last weekend was my first visit to the large Gokdepe bazaar, a world unto itself, acres wide, with twisting labyrinthine stalls and alleyways that overflow its cement walls and cover much of the surrounding valley, only giving way to the rows of buses and large vans which retrieve and depart with the bazaar’s occupants. Every dusty square foot is filled with velvet, satin, cotton, and synthetic fabrics and prints; embroidery (patterns, raw materials, and completed pieces done by hand and machine); coats, jeans, sweaters, and shirts from Turkey and China; soaps, lotions, yarn, music (cassette tapes), socks, hair pins, sponges, pots, tea sets, cleaning fluid, gasoline, car doors and headlights, cookies, backing soda, Snickers bars, cotton cooking oil in Coca Cola liter bottles, and every other conceivable knick-knack and life accessory. Carts full of sacks of flour, fresh pomegranates, and Bollywood DVDs pushed their way through the streets barely wide enough to fit them as women carrying bags half the size of themselves darted out of the way and pressed themselves up against three-foot high piles of empty shampoo bottles. It was a fascinating adventure of sights, scents, smells, and buzzing human activity (women in pants! A sight to sooth the soul and, surprisingly, make me slightly shamed and scandalized on their behalf), which I hope I can avoid doing again for at least two months. The sensory overload was worth it in the end as I now have cloth for my first Turkmen koinek (floor-length dress) which I’m designing with my host sisters’ help/dictation. I’m choosing the neckline, my middle sister is designing the embroidery pattern and sewing it with her sewing machine, my oldest sister is cutting the fabric, and my littlest sister is tailoring it to fit me perfectly. With our powers combined, and assuming I survive their enthusiasm, I should have a lovely red and black dress fit for school, weddings, and guesting by the end of next week. After living with only four outfits during the past two months, the idea of a new possibility in the morning fills with me a sublime glee. Unexpected lesson of this week: PC makes you more materialistic, interesting how that works out.
Despite some hitches, the first two weeks of intensive teaching technical training (translation: sink or swim classroom instruction with bi-weekly “hub days” where we learn how we could have taught better four days before) have gone very well. My kids have their colors, numbers (even out of sequence!), and introductions down pat and they come running to give me hugs from three streets away. A lifetime terror of children as a race has only lessened slightly after getting to know them better, but their beaming faces after getting positive reinforcement on an answer (Turkmen teachers generally don’t say “good job”) remind me why I’m here.
In other news, last weekend was my first visit to the large Gokdepe bazaar, a world unto itself, acres wide, with twisting labyrinthine stalls and alleyways that overflow its cement walls and cover much of the surrounding valley, only giving way to the rows of buses and large vans which retrieve and depart with the bazaar’s occupants. Every dusty square foot is filled with velvet, satin, cotton, and synthetic fabrics and prints; embroidery (patterns, raw materials, and completed pieces done by hand and machine); coats, jeans, sweaters, and shirts from Turkey and China; soaps, lotions, yarn, music (cassette tapes), socks, hair pins, sponges, pots, tea sets, cleaning fluid, gasoline, car doors and headlights, cookies, backing soda, Snickers bars, cotton cooking oil in Coca Cola liter bottles, and every other conceivable knick-knack and life accessory. Carts full of sacks of flour, fresh pomegranates, and Bollywood DVDs pushed their way through the streets barely wide enough to fit them as women carrying bags half the size of themselves darted out of the way and pressed themselves up against three-foot high piles of empty shampoo bottles. It was a fascinating adventure of sights, scents, smells, and buzzing human activity (women in pants! A sight to sooth the soul and, surprisingly, make me slightly shamed and scandalized on their behalf), which I hope I can avoid doing again for at least two months. The sensory overload was worth it in the end as I now have cloth for my first Turkmen koinek (floor-length dress) which I’m designing with my host sisters’ help/dictation. I’m choosing the neckline, my middle sister is designing the embroidery pattern and sewing it with her sewing machine, my oldest sister is cutting the fabric, and my littlest sister is tailoring it to fit me perfectly. With our powers combined, and assuming I survive their enthusiasm, I should have a lovely red and black dress fit for school, weddings, and guesting by the end of next week. After living with only four outfits during the past two months, the idea of a new possibility in the morning fills with me a sublime glee. Unexpected lesson of this week: PC makes you more materialistic, interesting how that works out.
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