Teaching: A Retrospective

    Now, in previous blog entries, I’ve mentioned loving my job. I really did. This sounds corny, I know, but there’s something about a child’s smile that makes me get all bright and giddy inside. I learned so much about Moroccan culture from my students, and they were overjoyed to learn about life across the pond. I walked to the bus after work with a goofy grin every day.

            That said, I’ve waited to fully expound upon the less-glamorous aspects of the Moroccan schooling system.

            Anyway, I taught at a school in Sala Jadida.

            A little bit of geographical background: outside of Rabat is Sale. Outside of Sale is the underdeveloped and agrarian New Sale, otherwise known as Sala Jadida. My commute clocked in at an hour and a half each way.

            The school was underfunded, disorganized, and all kinds of chaotic. Classes invariably ran ten minutes behind schedule, and teachers spent half their time disciplining kids.

            At the front of every classroom, there was a wooden block – square on one end, trapezoidal on the other. It was used for two things: banging the blackboard to quiet kids down and corporal punishment. It was used very, very, often. From 8 to 5, the halls of the school rang with the oppressive knocking noise of the infernal blocks clanging against blackboards.

            A fellow English teacher would often complain to me about how the children don’t listen, pay attention in class, or do their homework. She would then roll her eyes at me and sigh exasperatedly, as if to elicit agreement. I never gave her one.

            These were intelligent kids. They picked up the vocabulary I gave them very quickly and were always eager to learn more about all things America. The problem was that this teacher would write a sentence or two on the board every day and force every student in every one of her classes to sit still, be silent, and copy it verbatim. These children were as young as six.

When kids screwed up, she would approach them and yell or just scoff dismissively. If a student talked too loudly, she would pick up his or her book and wail on his or her head with it. (Just to be clear: the books were soft cover – but still!) If a student forgot his or her book or didn’t do his or her homework, she would make them stand up at the front of the classroom and hit them harshly on the palms with the unassuming wooden block.

            Never once did I hear her verbally laud a student. If they did well on a homework assignment, she would write “Good”. No exclamation mark, no smiley face, no fun swirly thing – just “Good”. I made a habit of grading my papers with large, grinning, cartoons. Kids went nuts as soon as I returned the first batch of papers. They actually rushed my desk with completed homework assignments, desperate for some sort of affirmation.

            The most jarring part of this whole mess was that this teacher was a genuinely gregarious person – outside of class. She was always amicable to me and laughed and smiled with her students as long as she didn’t have chalk in her hand. The contrast made her in-class causticity all the more disconcerting. It wasn’t just her, though. Every single educator I met at the school was liker her: kind, warm, and gentle - except for when teaching.

            It was an intense job. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen kids beaten. I try not to think about how many times I’ve seen kids cry. I realized that I couldn’t single-handedly stop that from happening. I resolved to do my best as a teacher and lead by example – it was really all I could do. In my classroom, I traded copybooks for skits, blows to the head for pats on the shoulder, censure for praise, tears for smiles, and fear for happiness.

            On the last day, I saw the aforementioned teacher hit a kid. I had suggested alternate methods of discipline since I began working at the school, but my input went unheeded. I approached the teacher and asked calmly why she hits her students, noting that we never do that in America. She was uncomfortably cavalier in her response: “They don’t do their homework, so I have to…”

            She raised the wooden block to hit the next student. He broke down in tears, begging for forgiveness. She put her head in her hand, dropped the block extravagantly, and sent the kid back to his seat.

            So that felt pretty awesome. I really did feel like I had made a difference.

 Here are some pictures. Enjoy!

Me teaching. Notice the two kids performing a skit.

 I put this picture in there just for that kid in the blue shirt. He was a fun kid.

Eied

            The ever-bustling passageways of the labyrinthine Medina were eerily deserted. Every single shop lining the walkways was closed, corrugated metal barriers ominously assuming the place of overflowing, Arabic-pop-blasting storefronts. The streets (if you can call them streets) were silent except for frequent hacking noises, the occasional whoop and holler, and the subtle crackling of flame. Oh, yeah, about that - there was a sizeable bonfire every 50 feet or so. Large Moroccan men - some smiling blithely, some briskly irritated – ambled hurriedly past me with massive, menacing knives lying tensely at their sides and large, obvious blood stains flayed across their dirtied clothes. The sometimes-tiled floor of the ancient walled city was all kinds of rank, smeared with ashen charcoal and the occasional red dot or smear. If you looked at the red closely enough, you would soon realize that the spacing of the dots was very regular, and then you’d see that it was blood you were staring at. The regularity of the dots made it seem as if a wounded soldier had limped his or her way down the very street you were walking on, and his or her shattered leg had smeared some of the blood.

            “This is so utterly surreal,” I remarked in Mandarin to my Chinese friend.

            Let me back up a bit.

            Roughly seventy days after Ramadan, the Islamic world celebrates Eied, a holiday that commemorates Abraham’s dedication to God. This is customarily done by buying a lamb, sacrificing it, butchering it, and distributing the meat: one third to the poor, one third to friends, and the final third to one’s own family.

            During the entire week leading up to Eied, I saw people carting lambs throughout Rabat. I even spied a lamb shoved into a car trunk once!

            Throughout the night before Eied, the city echoed with the warbly cries of the lambs holed-up in apartments. They sounded uncannily like the calls for prayer broadcast across the city five times each day. Having developed the habit of keeping track of time via the prayer calls, all the new false alarms threw me off.

            I woke up early on the day of the festival. As my host family decided to spare the expense of purchasing a lamb, I walked to a fellow volunteer’s host house in the medina to witness and hopefully partake in the celebration. I began to see the bonfires as soon as I turned on to the main street.

Why the fires?  To burn the hair off of the lamb heads and cook them a little bit.

I entered the medina. It was desolate but not quite devoid of djelabba-donning denizens. I arrived at my friend’s house and saw a hapless lamb tied-up in a corner of a courtyard. I greeted the father, smiling as I again spoke the well-rehearsed sequence of Moroccan greetings. After discussing his model-boat building hobby, I asked if I could help prepare for the sacrifice in any way.

I cleaned-up the plot of brick intended for the sacrifice and joined the mom in smearing henna on the bridge of the lamb’s nose.

            I again again if there were anything I could do to help.

            My friend’s host brother, now brandishing a long, freshly-sharpened knife, replied, “Nope.”

            One thing I’ve learned in Morocco: it’s customary to turn down offers at least once.

I asked again.

            He hesitated for a bit, then remarked, “Actually, yes, there is.” He gestured for me to come over and help hold the lamb down. The dad had wrestled it to the ground and was holding the head. The brother firmly clamped down half of the body and indicated for me to grasp the animal’s hind legs.

             I‘d heard they hang the lamb upside down after slaughtering it to let the blood drain and the meat for at least one day. I assumed that they would hang the lamb first before slaughtering it. That is not what happened.

            There I was, thinking that I was going to help them hoist the lamb up onto the loop of rope above us, when the host dad whipped-out a large knife from nowhere and quickly brought it down onto the lamb’s neck. Blood burst out of the wound in a huge gush -   it had an odd crimson tinge. It looked like a certain color of paint Moroccans use to mark high-quality melons more than anything else.

            I was not ready for this. The blow came swiftly and suddenly. I just went with it.

            My Arabic teacher had told me that they sacrifice the lamb with a deft slice across the jugular so that it dies instantly and feels no pain – ergo, I thought the lamb would just simmer down and kick the bucket peacefully.

             That is not what happened. Instead, the lamb kicked and gurgled and shook for a solid minute or two. I kept clamping down on its leg. After the lamb had finally died (or stopped moving, rather), I helped the family raise it up to the rope and clean up the blood. I thanked them and headed home.

            And there you have it. 

My first Eied.

            Walking home, both stunned and fascinated by the ritual, my Chinese friend called me up asking me to join him and a co-worker for the afternoon. His company gave him Eied off and he asked if I knew the best place to check out the Eied festivities.

Oh, did I ever. I suggested we head down to the medina.

It was quite a treat. Talking about it in Chinese was made it even sweeter (and a little bit more surreal).  

Two things in the first paragraph still deserve explanation:

The guys carrying knives? Hired butchers who travel between the houses of people who cannot or will not carve-up the lamb themselves. The blood? From the lamb carried through the streets.

            We then headed back to the coworker’s house for a delicious home-cooked Chinese meal. As we cooked, I couldn’t help but feel a little differently about the knives as I chopped up veggies and garlic.

            When I got home, there were drops of blood all up and down the stairwell. Spooky.

            Fun little side note – I ended up speaking English, Chinese, Moroccan Arabic, Standard Arabic, and a little bit of French that day. It was memorable indeed.
          Now for some pictures.

 The medina...

...and again.

Me and my Chinese friend.

 Some lamb skins. They're made into furniture after the festival.

Me holding a lamb head.

Adventures in the Sahara

Two weekends ago, some close friends/fellow volunteers and I visited the Sahara. After three hours on a train through the pastoral Moroccan countryside and eight more hours on a winding bus ride through the mountains, I was pleasantly roused from a fitful sleep by the bright, burning Saharan sunrise pouring in through the wide windows of the bus. We proudly stepped onto the sand and headed to our accommodations.

After a quick nap, I began my Saharan adventures by ambling over to a nearby Berber village. The Berbers are an ethnic minority in North Africa, and they speak this nifty language that’s related to Ancient Egyptian. They’re known for their skill in handicrafts (specifically silver jewelry and carpets) and the distinctive tattoos Berber women don upon engagement. (Wikipedia link for your convenience: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berber_people)

If I could pick one word to describe the village, it would be organic. All of the walls were made out of a tan adobe-like material built of mud and straw. The burnt beige sand between the buildings matched the color of the earthen concrete, and it eerily seemed as if the village rose out of the ground. Adding to the town’s mystique were the lack of clearly marked storefronts and the general lack of people. 

Oh, yeah, one more thing: as I walked, the buildings and village were at my right and the flowing, staccato dunes of the Sahara rose at my left. I was between some of the most visually enthralling structures the earth has to offer and an ethereal Berber village. It was awe-inspiring. The pointed, rolling dunes clashed yet simultaneously paired up perfectly with the rounded frames of the boxy clay houses. As I walked between them, I couldn’t help but revel in how utterly foreign the landscape around me felt and how glad I was to be there.

            After the walk, my friends and  I rode camels into a camp in the heart of the desert. If you get a chance to ride a camel, do it. The ride is unique, as camels have a really soothing swaying, bobbing gait that almost mimics the ebbing of the dunes.

Speaking of dunes: they’re mesmerizing. They also happen to be really difficult to describe. The best way I can put this into words is that the dunes look kind of fake. You’ve undoubtedly seen pictures of them as a Windows default desktop background or something, and you’ve probably thought to yourself: “Wow, that looks awesome but fake.” On a computer screen, they’re pretty cool. In real life, that whole synthetic shading thing they have going on looks positively otherworldly. They look straight out a Pixar movie. They possess a unique shade of orange that I haven’t seen anywhere else. Now that I think about it, in the right light, it’s almost a Princeton orange. The most spellbinding thing about them, though, is the way they play with the sun. It’s cool stuff. All of the phases of the day have natural and distinct manifestations in the dunes. At dawn, they’re a youthful salmon-pink that perfectly compliments the juvenile morning sun. At midday, they exhibit the brilliant almost-Princeton-orange that elegantly counter balances the pristine light blue of the sky. At sundown, they turn a lavender-purple, and are just as relaxing as the scent of the lavender plant itself.

I will never look at sun nor sand the same way again.

We arrived at camp around sunset. I set out to replicate the photo of Brendan Kutler’s that most resonates with me – White Sands Part 5. (http://l11ll3.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d280tgt)

After we set up in the camp, we all ran to jump off dunes. Outrageously fun?  Take a look:

Before to sleep, I meditated under the stars of the Sahara. Oh, the stars. Now, keep in mind that we were pretty much in the middle of nowhere. There was zero light pollution. Even the moon was MIA, so the stars were as bright as cosmically possible. You know you’re getting a rare look at the night sky when you can make out the nebulous (no pun intended) band of stellar dust that runs through the heavens. It was the most beautiful night of my life, hands down. I must have been out there for 40 minutes, staring at the sky, spellbound.

We slept beneath the stars. I couldn’t have been happier.

We woke up early to watch the sunrise. Clouds blotted out the orange light only the faintest bit, so the rising sun looked straight out of a Japanese watercolor.

 Here are some more pictures from the desert. Enjoy.

            We rode the camels back and  toured a different area of the desert shortly after in a Jeep. It felt like a videogame and a roller coaster in equal parts. We visited some abandoned villages and the place where “The Little Prince” was filmed!

            When we got back, two friends of mine (Jan and Sam) and I noticed that there was a sandboard in the  hotel’s lobby area. We asked around and learned that we were free to use it. I picked up the board and we set out for the biggest dune we could find. It looked about five minutes away.

            One more thing I should note about the desert: everything looks closer than it actually is. Five minutes stretched into twenty five, but the scenery was so enchanting that we didn’t mind in the slightest. The dune looked pretty big, but nowhere near as utterly massive as it felt from the top.

            The trek up was not easy (especially with a sanboard and in a sandstorm), but the view from the peak was compelling enough that it didn’t matter. I felt so fantastically on top of the world from that vantage point. It seemed as if the entire Sahara poured out from that very dune. As I looked down upon the desert, sand battering my cheeks, sun pounding gently at my chest, I couldn’t think of anything but how perfect it was to be where I was right at that moment.

            I would have taken more pictures from the top, but the sandstorm trashed my camera.  : ( This is the last picture I got:

            I strapped my feet into the board’s tenuous binding, hopped to get over the lip of the dune, and carved sharply into the sand as I barreled down the sharply inclined slope. I was actually able to dip my hand into the sands as I banked into the powdery sand. The mixture of sand, sun, and speed (in spades) was exhilarating as anything I’ve ever experienced. I like to think that Michael, an avid surfer, would have approved.

Morocco! (and a little something else)

So I’ve arrived safely in Rabat. My host family is friendly, the city is beautiful, and the food is excellent. But first…

Bet you didn’t see that coming. I visited  Frankfurt! I had some time between flights, so I took a subway and explored the city. It was my first time in Germany, and it didn’t disappoint. The contrast between the modern global city and the quaint German town intrigued me the second I hopped off the subway. I walked around most of the city and was treated to picturesque views of domes, alleyways, and bridges.The first thing that struck me was how the city looked so quintessentially metropolitan at eye level. The storefronts of Frankfurt blend together in a cosmopolitan swath similar to other major cities. Tilt your head back, however, and Frankfurt’s true colors show. Every building, save for a couple malls and skyscrapers, looks like it’s from two centuries ago. I enjoyed the plazas and stopped in two cathedrals, one from the 14th century!

I discovered a Chinese restaurant in downtown Frankfurt. I ordered beef and broccoli and was surprised at how good the meal was. I happily spoke Chinese with the staff and some Chinese tourists. The chance to use my Mandarin was definitely very welcome. 

Fast forward to Morocco. I arrived at my host family’s house late at night and chatted with my host brother until 4:30 am. His name is Saad, and his English is excellent. They are very kind.

I slept through the afternoon. After chatting with Saad and my host parents, I got dressed and hailed a taxi to American Ambassador’s residence near the U.S. Embassy in Rabat for the Rosh Hashanah dinner. Ambassador Sam Kaplan and his wife, Sylvia, are so kind and hospitable. They warmly welcomed me to Morocco and I was honored to be seated next to Mrs. Kaplan. It was actually my first meal in Morocco! A sweet, savory, and all-around perfect chicken-based “tazhin” (the zh is pronounced like “s” in pleasure) was served. As I sunk my teeth into the uniquely Moroccan dish and enjoyed the wonderful company, something clicked. I instinctively knew that Morocco was the right choice. I couldn’t have asked for a better start to this adventure! It was indeed a memorable evening.

My host brother and I went out for a walk around the beach the next day. It was the last day of Ramadan – the Night of Power, or the night Mohammed ascended to heaven. I even donned a white linen tunic, customary attire for Muslim men on the last day the end of Ramadan. The view was quite a treat. The moon formed a perfect scimitar-like crescent in the sky, and it was reflected in a pristine pool just above the waves. I’d describe it some more, but I could just show you:

My first week was fascinating. To celebrate Rosh Hashanah and then the end of Ramadan within the first twenty four hours of arriving in Morocco was quite the treat.  I also explored Rabat thoroughly and discovered lots of nifty nooks and crannies. I was pleased to discover that I feel really comfortable navigating even the labyrinthine sprawl of the old walled city, or Medina. More on that later.

I started my volunteer work last Monday. I expected it to be pretty swell, and it was even better. I'm teaching English to high school students around my age. They're willing to learn and very fun to teach! They're already helping me practice my Arabic, too.

I had my first Arabic lesson last Wednesday. It's a thrill to be delving into an entirely new language again. I'm really liking Arabic so far. The throaty sounds of the language are so different from anything I've ever heard before, and the flowing writing system is delightfully fresh. 

Oh, and, hearing babies speak Arabic is adorable. Just saying.

In short: Morocco's awesome. : D

- Gavin

The Summer

This summer was pretty fantastic. I found a paid internship to help fund my gap year. For most of the summer, I clocked in at Girardi and Keese, the downtown law firm of Erin Brockovitch fame.

That's right. I worked at the Erin Brockovitch firm. Stuff like that only happens in LA.

It was a great experience. I gained a new understanding of the legal profession and loved the water cooler scene. I wore a suit and tie every day and went to office parties. One night after work, I even walked to the Walt Disney Concert Hall with the office to see the LA Lawyer's Philaharmonic. Having Azuka Ehi, one of my best friends from Harvard-Westlake, working with me as a fellow intern only made it better.

Interestingly enough, three co-workers at the firm knew Michael Brownstein - two from HW, one from Princeton. One of the HW grads worked with him at UTA, and the Princeton alum was in the Cottage eating club with him.

On lunch breaks, Azuka and I explored most of the key locations from the movie, 500 Days of Summer. Our personal favorite was the fountain. Which fountain? THE Fountain. If you've seen the movie, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

(If you haven't seen it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2seAJsrtIbQ)

I also tutored Chinese this summer. I started out teaching several children, but I ended up in the office cafeteria helping my boss write Chinese characters on a legal pad as well.

Speaking of Chinese, I worked as a translator for a Chinese film. It was written and directed by a Westerner and produced in China. The actors in the film ad-libbed most of the time, so the English-speaking editor/director/writer couldn't go by the script. That's where I came in. I sat next to him in the dimly-lit editing room, hunched around the editing bay, and translated every word. It was a great new way to use my Chinese.

I enjoyed time with my friends before we all head off in different directions.
It was the best summer of my life, hands-down.

I leave for Rabat in 18 hours. Within hours of landing, I'll be at a very special dinner. (Thank you, Uncle Dan Primer and Mark Lehmann!)

The Ambassador of the United States of America

Mr. Samuel Kaplan and Mrs. Sylvia Kaplan

request the pleasure of the company of

Mr. Gavin Cook

at a Rosh Hashanah Dinner

on Thursday, September 9, 2010 at 7:00 p.m.

Villa America

Avenue de Fès. No. 15

Hassan - Rabat

 

A Little Bit of Background

I'm Gavin. I'm taking a gap year!

I graduated from the Harvard-Westlake School in Los Angeles this June. I was accepted into the Princeton Class of 2014 and deferred admission for a year because I received the HW Brownstein Fellowship. It helps fund a gap year of community service and cultural immersion for one senior.

(For more on the Brownstein fellowship, see: http://www.brownsteinfund.org/
If you're a prospective applicant, see: http://students.hw.com/Portals/44/Brownstein.pdf)

I am that senior (now graduate).

I am very thankful to the Brownstein Family and Committee for this opportunity and honor.

I'll be spending the next three and half months teaching English and learning Arabic in Rabat, Morocco with the Projects Abroad program. Rabat, an ancient coastal city, is the capital of Morocco. I depart September 7th. I'm excited. : D

A few quick facts about Morocco:
- It was the first country to acknowledge America's independence.
- It is a sister city of Honolulu.
- The current king, Mohammed VI, is very progressive and is an avid jet-skier.
- It is the intersection of African, Middle Eastern, and European cultures.
- The beverage of choice is Moroccan mint tea - sweetened green tea brewed with fresh mint leaves.
- Arabic, French, English, and Berber (a North African language related to ancient Egyptian) are all spoken in Morocco.

I'll be using this blog to keep you all updated on my adventures/explorations/insights/stories/thoughts. If you have a question about a post, don't hesitate to leave a comment! I'll do my best to get back to you.

So that's about it. Thanks for reading!

- Gavin 正明