making mistakes in plain site
Reflecting today on a piece I drafted a year ago, written with hopes that Distance Learning would be a short-term deal. And what might be, today and tomorrow. A flash.
Third floor
J in the middle of a Zoom with one of her EAL students. She smiles and solicits a response to a prompt, the child smiles back
First floor
Rhino and Elephant in the middle of Hangouts and Zooms with classmates
Second floor
I’m in the middle
And on the edge
And so, so, so
Tired
Just out for a stroll.
We take the long way around today, which allows us to jump through the short cut. It sneaks us under the scaffolded awnings and into the 3-metre wide corridor, past the usually abandoned restaurant. Once again today, it is dark, fish tanks arrayed in front, pumps busy, ready for the catch of the day that never comes.
I’ve yet to see any fish.
We pass through and approach the wood slats that define the end of the restaurant property and beginning of the alley. I never really know whether it’s okay for us to travel this way, but we’ve never really been hassled.
Hello!
Until now.
Where are you live?
Sorry?
I worry that we’ve pressed our luck and it has run out. We both tend to be rule followers, but this path is well-worn, and we regularly see random motorbikes pass this way, so what’s the harm in a couple of kindly foreigners?
Where are you live?
We live in Xom Chua!
I point.
He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. His green helmet slightly askew as he settles on the motorbike.
Crap. Did we do something wrong?
Ah, no, sorry! Where do you from?
Country?
Ah! Canada!
I say, with relief.
Ok!
How old are you?
Sorry?
How old are you?
Ah, I’m an old, old man.
No?
I’m an old man!
I offer, only half in jest, with a smile.
Okay. Have a nice day!
He says with a kind wave and a broad smile, and his body relaxes.
English practice for today is done
And I am genuinely, duly impressed at this risk-taker.
I sit in the abandoned classroom, accompanied and hassled by the squad of flies, diving in, alighting on my neck and flitting away, just enough nuisance to distract.
There’s so many at this time of year
Where do they all come from?
I hear a couple voices down the way and peek at the clock
they’re coming back already?
With a start, I jump up, sneak out of the classroom, and await the returning kids
they trail in at different times, back from their range of world language classes.
There’s great energy here. Plenty of smiles, they’ve had fun.
And the overarching mood is gratitude to be back in school.
I welcome each child back with an elbow bump and reminder
back to your nonfiction text – looking for important details
right back to it
When I notice the folded paper on the shoe rack
What is that?
I can be a bit fastidious (at times, that is), keeping the area in and around the class tidy is generally a priority for me.
So I step over and thoughtlessly reach down to pick it up, and find my fingers sticking to the paper.
I pull my hand away and finally look down.
And that’s when I realize I have put my hands down, firmly, onto a folded piece of fly paper
but this is, cruelly, not a fresh piece
It’s loaded, squished nibblies, and guts. Fly guts. Everywhere.
And now, all over my fingers.
I gasp, the kids spot my mistake, and groan.
I throw the paper into the trash, rush into the bathroom, and wash my hands
doing my best to keep my lunch down.
I sneak into the back of the cab
It’s always a quiet moment. Invariably, as the driver sees that I am not ‘from around here’, he keeps quiet. I, being not ‘from around here’, do the same.
I settle in, watch the lights of the neighbourhood wander past, and listen
The radio is gentle, understated, some kind of talk radio. I strain to understand, navigating tones and sharp cuts to find any kind of meaning
Gotta keep studying
When I hear, unmistakeable
Leicester City and Brighton
Now they’re speaking my language.
In my broken, flawed Vietnamese, I manage to ask whether he likes football, and he’s off.
Pulls out his phone, excited now. Points to today’s fixtures.
Man City – Man U
I ask which team he likes
No Man City! Too much money!
On this we can agree. I have a begrudging respect for them, but yeah.
I consider explaining how the Top 6 are basically an oligopoly, how the bottom half of the table serves largely as a farm system for the big clubs, symbolic of the inequity plaguing our greater society and inherent issues with capitalism as a problematic pillar of our modern world
But decide that might be a tough explain
So, instead, we spend the rest of the ride in silence, the radio show in good form
Smiling
Appreciating our shared language
Happy International Women’s Day!
It should be, and is, for many.
But it’s not, for far too many others.
We read Malala’s Magic Pencil this morning. About how she wove magic, achieved the unimaginable. With her words.
How words have power.
There is an audible gasp in the classroom when I tap the statistic that 130,000,000 young girls are unable to attend school.
This is unthinkable, for these kids. Unconscionable, for me.
But sad simple reality, for so many more.
A colleague adds that since COVID, these numbers are on the grow.
In the face of these official ‘days’, ‘months’, and various campaigns that so often act as bandaid, performative and toothless, I’m reminded of Cornel West’s clarity:
Now I have nothing against philanthropy. I just don’t confuse charity with justice.
And, so, again this year, with justice in mind and an eye on a world where we don’t need reminders
I raise a glass to the moms, grannies, aunties, sisters, partners, friends, teachers, and girls
Who weave magic, every day.
Like many things in Hanoi, these winding streets feel unimaginable. The narrowest of alleys, sheperded by iron gates, concrete walls, towering apartments. All linked with secret turns and punctuated by the sharpest of angles.
The sky darkens from gray to black, dusk is here. We’re unconcerned, despite being trapped like rats and even accompanied by a few.
We wander.
The slight woman with the twin baskets slung over her shoulder, perfectly balanced, conical Non La atop her head, overtakes, then keeps pace with us. I’m not sure where she’s going, but for now she’s a rabbit to our chase.
She pauses, slides open the imposing gate, and steps delicately up the three landing stairs. Removes her shoes and hat, and slips inside. The fresh vegetables lining her baskets have found their home.
We continue along, leaving our rabbit behind, until the impossibly narrow alley becomes impossibly narrower. Just wide enough for a bike, or a wild dog. As we squeeze through, and round a couple more corners, it’s clear we’re not sure where we’re going.
We round the next corner and pause to peer through the narrow slats on the metal gate, and finally recapture our sense of direction.
But what seems right has left us.
where did the lake go
Undeterred and resolute, we march on.
If there’s one thing we’ve learned from our time here
it’s that something amazing is around the corner.
My eyes are drawn
First, to the bike.
Immaculate, sleek, defined. This is the treasure of one who tends, with care. Both helmets perfectly placed, one hanging, as it should, from the handlebar, ready at moment’s notice. The second, lain in wait, nestled securely in cradle, eager for a second rider.
The spokes define the wheels, all aglow, bright silver against black rubber. HONDA, blocked, parallels the concrete slabs below. Decals, lit fire. Acute bumps against obtuse and apexes in a leather cushion, providing an unexpected yet perfect perch.
And so, unexpectedly, he perches, perfectly.
how did he get it so clean on such a sodden day?
Behind him, there’s a collection of less significant bikes. Parked for the hour, perhaps the day. They don’t mean as much.
Lotus is scrawled in rushed, looping black letters, trailing down the narrow white wall.
And I wonder what that might mean.
But, in the end, in this frozen moment in time,
He is what demands my attention.
He sends his gaze downward, greying hair framing his lined face, shadowing his black leather jacket.
is he content
world weary
wondering what is or what might be?
Nah.
without a doubt, his thoughts are on what was
He balances, safe off the ground. Legs – almost crossed – soles of bare feet touching, arm propped on knee, hands holding him in place, anchored, trenchant. He looks down, and away.
anywhere but here
or now
And I have two questions.
what is he looking at
and
what has he seen
The days before proper Spring are cynics.
We follow their lead, and are solidified. Ensconced. Chrysalid.
These days we, along with this city of millions, are on lockdown. But we still find a way to venture out.
Let’s try to grab a bite
The weather persists. Cool, wet, saturated, all drizzle and (small p) acific nw.
they call it Moldy March for a reason
Even now, among this extended gestation, there are signs of emergence
Pockets of the city are vibrant, alive,
the breathe in, and out.
We’re antsy, today. Begging to slip the cocoon, branch out, take flight. So we meander, hopeful to find a nibble as we go. We pass shops, shuttered, metal doors closing us off to the world that lays behind.
Do you even remember what was here?
We pass our favoured restaurants, well lit and ready for business, encouraged by the warmth.
We might be in luck
But at each stop, the same sign, scrawled hastily in chalk, greets and gives pause.
sorry, take away or delivery only please
Despite our hopes, it’s not our night, nor our week, to dine out. Our hanger fuels our disappointment.
But we are reminded that there is more to this, something bigger afoot. Of friends abroad, for whom it’s not only not the night, not the week, nor their year, to eat out.
We pause and take stock of what we have. And look forward to that imminent, anticipated, treasured moment
When we all get to spread our wings
The impossible lane, being impossible,
stretches farther than I imagined
My steps are tentative, the bike light guiding my way
I get a few strange looks, which beg
why is he pushing it
what’s wrong
We had laid the bike down that Saturday, Rhino and me. Our near-collision came around the blind corner at full speed, eyes ahead, not expecting our jump across her path. Brakes slammed, sliding to a stop just short of her.
We were both okay, road rash but nothing more
She paused, but only briefly, to ensure we were not injured
okay?
I paused for a minute, trying to decide if there was time and capacity to translate and explain what was really going on: I’m shook; scared for what might have been; surprised; uneasy.
yeah, okay!
And she was off.
You okay bud?
Yeah papa, I’m fine.
But the bike, only barely functional,
Was not.
So I walk, and push, and feel self-conscious.
And wonder what lies around the next impossible bend.
Many things can be true, at once.
My brown flip flops dart between the hardscrabble red dirt and dried brush as the sun beats down. Each step meticulous, geared to avoiding pokes and stickers.
Who am I
It can be true that colleagues and educators, around the planet, are giving their all, all day, managing kids traumatized, digitized, screenified, unsure of what might come
Unbowed, unbroken, they are keeping things together, working through lunch, recess, shouldering new roles, the midst of yesterday’s solutions creating today’s problems
Exhausted. Stretched.
It can be true that school leaders are trapped between demanding parents and fiscal uncertainty.
Complex systems, now reminders of what once was, stark in contrast to what now is. And decisions, always decisions, that ultimately, have human impact.
I would not want to be in their shoes
And am grateful for their work.
I transition from the dried grasses to the manicured lawns to the hot sands
I’m not good with transitions
Who am I
It can be true that decisions have consequences.
For family, for systems, for schools. And ultimately for people. For kids.
Human impact.
It can be true that managing, building, and doing the work of Distance Learning is impossibly challenging. Trapped behind a screen, the day begins and doesn’t let up. At all. Hours and hours, thousands of clicks and punches. And at the end of it all, still to ask
Did they get it
Working so hard to come up with content, in hopes that it strikes the proper chord, resonant with understanding. Much like in a typical day in a typical classroom.
But Distance Learning, by its nature, is atypical.
Distant, cold.
Limited, and limiting.
Separated by 1s and 0s, kids trapped behind screens, it is nearly impossible to know
Did they get it
As close to an existential crisis as teachers can have.
In a classroom, the kids have demands that never let up. Thousands of decisions, made instantly. But then, mercifully, the kids go home.
When you teach from home, the kids never leave.
It can be true that workload increases, a brand-new FFT, demand intensifies. To feel isolated and separate, on a literal and figurative island.
Alone, as others come together, dig in, unite.
These things can be true.
It can be true that we all struggle, that suffering is an eternal truth. That nobody wins in the face of a global pandemic. People lose connection, jobs, each other.
That a two-teacher family can struggle with quarantine, with home school, with helping their boys manage schedules, time, the endless pursuit of balance.
We flail about awkwardly, as if parenting or teaching for the first time, and blow it just the same.
It can also be true that there is much
to be grateful for
For a pause in the ether, echoes of solitude,
birdsong
I slip off the flops, toes digging into hot sand. Just hot enough to turn my steady gait into an awkward hop.
And as the cool water curls my toes
I remember who I am
Get Up Eight 