Get Up Eight

On some days in the classroom, just as in life,

things can go down the toilet.

Between signal, transmission, and execution, there are so many dips and drops to send the whole enterprise asunder.

I’m not a designer.

I don’t really have a sense for where and how to put the right words in the right place. 

I often make slides for the classroom – but they kind of stink if I’m honest. Unless I really take time to play with them – and what teacher has time for that?

I let the art of teaching shine, above, and separate to, the ‘art’ of creating a slide deck about ecosystems.

Don’t let perfect get in the way of pretty good

I am a bit of a font nerd though, and much prefer simple, clear ones that are easy on the eyes but don’t distract from the content (please don’t come at me with Comic Sans, apologies not apologies to 80% of the education world).

Clear is kind

So, in this moment, as I stand and take care of business in the bathroom, this uniquely-fonted sign grabs my attention. 

Không bỏ giấy vào bồn cầu.

And, in English, below:

Please throw the tissue into the toilet.

But something is not quite right. 

I look again and my eyes are drawn across the small poster.

Close reading is important. 

Ah

Please DON’T throw the tissue into the toilet.

I read the fine print, and catch the little cartoonish toilet paper roll with rosy cheeks and dimples, holding a sign directed at the cartoonish and dimpled toilet, that says

I don’t love you.

My eyes track to the top of the poster where it says

Vietnamese plumbing is not designed to handle toilet paper.

Bốn cẩu không tiêu hóa được giấy.

And just like teaching,

given this seemingly simple piece of paper that someone has clearly taken time to compose and design,

between signal, transmission, and receipt, there are so many ways that this could go down the toilet.

Why do we run

Are we escaping, chasing, or merely passing through

I’m not sure whether I’m coming or going.

I pass gravestones marking those who’ve passed

They don’t haunt me, or even provoke. They are unobtrusive, present, and permanent

Unlike my steps.

There are snakes.

here, without a doubt.

I dodge them in advance, with loud footfalls, pounding in my ears and shaking the ground.

Cacti dot this path, along with patches of flattened grass, brought here by the roaming water buffalo

There are birds, everywhere. Dragonflies dart here and there, misty sun overseeing all as it makes its way across the fields.

This is solitary work

but I am not alone

I’m unsure why I committed to 5 km a day

I don’t have a runner’s body, it’s a bit too stocky, and has the flexibility of, well, an old man.

Takes one to know one

But, tired legs and all, I continue,

as I do

And make my way through these shrubby rolling patches, amongst the bulls

Why do we run

Because sometimes the only way out is through

Nah

that way scares me

I’m not sure which demons are chasing me through these graves in Central Vietnam

But I’m quite sure they are the same ones that have chased me for years

I know them a bit better now,

and familiarity breeds contempt

My choices are three:

Ride the wave

Dive under the wave

Or let it pummel me

And I honestly don’t know which one I’m choosing

as I put one step after the other.

I was in a state when I thought of this.

Do the words we use help us to grow our brains?

I don’t have a clue when it comes to the brain, it is deep, and fraught with curves and twists.

We have found a fun new game we play, but I’m not sure it helps the brain to grow. I won’t say what the game is called yet, but it is a ton of fun.

You sit in a group and try to get your team to guess words from clues. There’s a blow up “NO” bat that you use to bonk the one who breaks the rules.

We have a lot of laughs, and it keeps the fun right in front of us. There’s a twist though, which makes the game too hard at times.

I’m not sure if you can tell what the rules are or what the name of the game is yet so I’ll just tell you.  It’s called 

Poetry <NO BAT>

for Neanderthals <NO BAT>

Whoops, just lost two points.

Do you want to hear a spooky story?

No, generally, because I’m a big wimp and don’t like scary stories. I’m quite certain J is being hyperbolic and it won’t actually be spooky.

We are lying down together, tucking in Elephant, snuzzling in the dark room at our BnB. It’s the first night in and the settling has mostly been handled. Teeth are brushed, the only work left is to let the zzzzzs move in.

But first, a story.

We were snuggling here when we noticed a lump under the covers.

I tried to push it down but it seemed instead to shift, and maybe even move a bit.

So we lifted up the covers and tried to push it down again. Still, another shift.

We started to get a bit worried, like there was something alive under there. A tarantula, or a small lizard, or who knows, maybe even a lizard impersonating a tarantula!

We peeled up the top sheet; the lump was still there

We peeled up the mattress cover; the lump was still there, and it shifted (!) in the other direction. Still moving around!

We peeled up the layer under that; the lump was still there.

And finally, pretty worked by this point, we peeled off the bottom layer. And what do you think we found?

A lizard?

Nope

A snake?

Nope

I give up.

It was a doorknob! The scary doorknob from the great beyond, left behind to, oh, I don’t know, open doors to the great beyond?

They both collapse in hysterics, two goofballs, balling and goofing around.

They really did think it was a mouse, or something more sinister. The mind can play tricks on us when mystery is afoot, or under cover (as it were).

It’s a pretty fun story, to be fair, and story power comes from the telling. They’re delighted to both relive (relieve?) the tale, and to find joy in the recounting itself.

And now I get to share it too.

It is late

The proportion of closed shutters to open, populated bars and cafes shifts steadily.

I’m on a quick stroll around the block, in search of a shop with hat dieu (cashews). Late night munchies have hit.

Walking street is closing down

But the hustle is ramping up.

Where do you go?

I can take you anywhere.

The cyclo driver eases alongside as I stroll, his manner affable and his smile up front.

I’m okay, thank you.

What do you need

Massage?

No, thank you, I’m good.

Marijuana?

No, still good.

I smile and keep walking, and eventually this barker knows he’s up the wrong tree.

But a solitary foreigner walking around at midnight is a pretty clear mark. And in the 70 meters between the intersection and the snack shop up ahead, I’m approached by two more hustlers. The first on foot, second on a motorbike.

They are no strangers to this work, their office hours late into the night, intentions somewhat questionable. But hey, it’s a living.

I take you anywhere

I wave him off with another smile.

How about this?

He pulls a small layer of plastic out of his pocket and shows me his bud, dried and ready.

No, thank you. I’m good.

I have whatever you need.

This gives me pause.

Oh, is that so?

You have a pack of cashews, a toothbrush, and a good night’s sleep?

He snorts, gives me a wry smile, and slowly rolls away.

You should pee before you come upstairs. The bathroom is before you turn left.

Ok, see you in a bit.

I peek down the hallway.

WC 

I walk quickly towards the door and try the lock, but it’s a no go. Someone’s in.

I’m doing fine but have been walking for a while, and the urge has been constant for about 20 minutes.

It’s go time.

I adjust my body language and steel myself for another couple minutes.

No more than ‘just enough’ square feet, washrooms in Vietnam generally prioritize space. A small bideted toilet, minimal sink, just enough accoutrements to spice up our most basic of daily rituals.

So, when it’s my turn to sneak in, I’m momentarily taken aback.

A middle-aged security guard creaks the door open, decked out in navy blue brimmed cap and matching shirt. Name badge on his chest, all business on his face.

I’m of course expecting whoever was in front to be shaking off water or wiping on pants as the door swings ajar. But not this guy.

He holds in his hands a black and brown wood & metal folding chair.

He gently and methodically folds the chair and places it into a closeted water closet closet, a shelf filled with about 20 of the same chairs tucked within the wall inside this cramped space.

And I have questions.

What was he doing with that chair? 

Is it somehow part of his bathroom routine?

Does he use it to prop up his knees?

It is a ready prop in case a wrestler comes off the top rope?

Does he use it to steal a moment of needed sleep, in the one place he will not be disturbed?

I realize I want to ask him these questions, but he’s made his way down the hall and disappeared around the bend, no doubt back to work.

And as I close the door to take care of business, I realise this chairman has given me a whole new set of strategic goals.

When you hear my voice inside your head

what does it say

Leaving day has come

Despite my best intentions

And fight.

First born Rhino is ready

But,

I am not.

I stand outside his room as he gathers the last of his items, folds a last of his just washed shirts and places it methodically into a suitcase.

I take a moment to stare at his bags, neatly arrayed three wide, incredulous. His most important possessions and clothes inside

waiting to be whisked away, with my most important possession

Is this really how it goes?

His smile, generous character, easygoing, affable, burgeoning sense of who he is

All of it

Is saying goodbye, tonight.

And, while I am not ready

I do not have a choice in the matter.

Neil Gaiman wrote it best, when he said (roughly) ‘ the cruelest, most bitter irony of parenting is that if you do your job to completion,

your children say goodbye.

J paces and braces upstairs

the echo of the speaker paints the stairwell

It’s go time.

I don’t know the best time to say this so I choose now, because, maybe, it’s what I want for him to do as well

choose now

be here

steady

alive

make your way into this world. All its pain, and struggle, and tears.

Remember where you came from.

I lean into him, tears streaking

when you hear my voice

remember what it says

that you are thoughtful

generous,

caring,

talented,

brave,

compassionate

and

you are loved.

We are at work.

Tiny hands, smooth and nimble, grasp pencils. Some hold with greater confidence and care than others. The hands transmit thought, idea, wealth of knowing, to the page.

We’ve done our best to set kids up for success, shared experiences, multiple modes of learning, conversations and collaborations.

Their work today is to show what they understand.

Hmmmm?

Ooohhhhhh, ok.

Scattered coughs and clearing of throats. They are focused and hard at work, huddled somewhere between transmission and receipt, uncovering and broadcasting their understanding, such as it is.

The work we do as educators is amorphous, opaque.

Is this a good measure of what they know?

Did they get it?

and the kicker

What’s our plan if they don’t?

Quiet music serenades this dance

You said, ‘hold gently what you wish to grow old with’

Like a sparrow in your hands still needs to fly

Hold gently what you wish to grow old with

Don’t close those hands’

My old hands are here, too.

They point, nudge,

encourage.

But these old hands don’t work like they used to. Time has not been kind to them, fastening buttons and holding a pencil are uncomfortable chores, the result of nerve damage over years reminding me, on the daily

you’re not a kid anymore.

But the time and space around me, in this moment, is filled with tiny, powerful hands. And they remind me of a time when I, too, grasped a pencil with confidence and care.