This is Poo. She is in primary 1 and she is 6. You don't say her name with the same consonant as the "p" in my name, Peter. Her Thai nick name (they all have one chosen when they are young because their real names are so ornate and long) begins with what is called a bpaa bla which is the Thai consonant for "fish". So her nick name would more accurately be spelled Bpoo. Bpoo, like every one of my students so far, is perfect in every way. I don't mean perfectly well behaved. I mean perfect in the way that something touched by God's grace is perfect. I mean perfect in the way that it almost hurts to look her because she is so herself and so in the breathing second of the now and so unadulterated and so full of open tomorrows.
And so is Taliu, who looks a little like Bpoo and is the exact build, and with their uniforms it is no wonder I get the two of them mixed up on day two. And when I go through the names, I think in spite of the fabulous name tags they created, I will probably be a long time into November before I will know them all by heart, something I force myself to do on the first day in my classes in the US. Tomorrow I head to my second school where I will meet another group of students k-6 and that will add to the challenge. Trying to wrap my mouth around the actual pronunciation gives me an appreciation for their difficulty with saying "Thursday" and anything that ends in a consonant like "k" or "t". The bloom is still, of course, on the rose which is why these kindergarteners crowd around my door whenever there is a free moment and say repeatedly, "Hello Teeesha".I am served breakfast on arrival;today it was three fried eggs and rice with soy sauce. For lunch we had pad Thai and another soup with boiled cubes of blood. Sorry for the interruption, but as I was typing this, the most amazing little scenario took place on my door. A giant moth, who was banging against the glass to get inside with such ferocity I thought it might be a bird or bat, was just caught by the gigundo (10-11 inches tip of nose to tip of tail?) lizard who lives in my shower room. We have been running into each other like tenants in an apartment building, me trying to grab his photo for you to see, and here he commits this spectacular hunting kill three feet from my head. I just have to throw it in. Here are the before and after shots I just took:
He and his buddies can make quite a racket during the night, scampering about and doing god knows what-probably drinking beer and womanizing. So he owed me this display. I was a little worried the flash might make him drop his prey, but he seemed pretty proud of it and I think he was a little winded because I could see he was breathing pretty hard. It is getting a little late and I have to do a few more preps before I go to bed so I will just leave you with some of my 1-2's (I get to my 3-4's tomorrow) and you can wonder why you didn't think of coming here first. After all, my day started with watching online my beloved Giants win the World Series with a bench full of relatively underpaid old farts, I spent the day with these beautiful children who adore me; I came home and took a bike ride up the hill to see my friend Ben; I ate fresh, exquisite food, and now I'm listening to Sigur Ros and sharing it all with you, my wonderful friends. And no one I talked to all day has ever heard of the Tea Party or gives a tinker's damn who wins the senate or the house today, or knows who Lindsey Lohan is or whether she is in rehab or if the new Call of Duty video game is coming out soon or ever...Who could ask for anything more?
Great Post! Makes me really consider perspectives!
ReplyDeleteI have a Mark Greif essay about the Wheels on the Bus that I'll forward to you. Any requests for a care package, besides a door poster-sized glossy of my faculty photo?
ReplyDeleteGrief's interpretation of WOB is so far off base it isn't even worth mentioning. He is totally stuck in a post post modern viewpoint, which prevents him from seeing that the bus driver's "Move on back!"is not a a critique of schadenfreude but instead a reference to the naturists' beckoning to return to our pre-industrial roots.
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