Polish Thanksgiving
poland xii
Site Visit
Well, the site visit was a success. No surprises at all. I almost managed to keep the bike under wraps. Luigi took a look in my storage room after saying, “I’ve got to see this. May I?” The door was open for all of one second before he closed it and said, “Sorry! Sorry!” I assumed as long as Marcin was ignorant of the fact that all was well. Should anything happen he could rightfully and honestly say, “I didn’t know.” But as we were taking Danuta home – the final minutes! – she said, “Gary really likes riding his bike up here . . .” I could have killed her. Looking in the rearview mirror, Luigi asked, “Do you wear a helmet?” I told the truth: “Nie mam.” “Write that down!” he said to Marcin with a bit of a laugh. “The dictaphone is still on,” he replied. I asked if he’d had time to install the surveillance equipment – and the “ploy” worked, for the bike wasn’t mentioned again. Still, they now know . . . Still, nothing happened.
They both said my lesson was well done (as opposed to medium rare). What I liked best was that they said it is obvious that I enjoy teaching. Hopefully the students see that too. (I am sure many of them do.) Marcin also commented (and I concurred) that I’m very gentle with the students. “You don’t yell, but you get down with the students and talk very quietly, even whispering.” That’s what I want: I think the best (or one of) qualities a teacher can have is patience, which is exhibited by gentleness. I never want to yell at my students the way Barbara B. did on a few occasions. (I don’t even want to be openly hostile, though there is nothing wrong with anger – and showing it.)
All Saints
5:17 p.m.
I left my apartment around 4:30 and headed up to the cemetery to witness my first All Saints’ Day in Poland. I weaved my way through the maze of mud puddles that serve as my front yard and made it to the road, and suddenly it was if I was in Kraków instead of Lipnica. The street was filled with people, all leaving the cemetery as I made my way to the cemetery. I felt like the one Israelite who might have decided to turn back in the middle of the exodus. With my camera in hand and a bewildered look plastered across my face, I surely looked like a fool. But I didn’t care, for I was about to experience something I had heard about since arriving in Poland.
I made it to the graveyard and began wandering among the markers, making mental notes of all I saw. I watched families finish making a grave just so, arranging flowers and candles, speaking in whispers, then stand up, cross themselves, and walk away. I saw solitary babcias roaming about, their heads covered with the customary babcia scarf. They stopped in front of graves, hands laced together in front of them, their lips dancing as they muttered a prayer.
As I wandered about the hilltop cemetery, I was struck by a number of isolated, seemingly unconnected events. I saw a beautiful woman standing by a marker, not moving a muscle. I glanced at the grave: it indicated that the deceased died young, and only a couple of years ago. I looked at the woman’s face again and saw the immediate pain of a sudden, unexpected loss still in her eyes. It appeared that she still had not come to accept the death.
I walked on but stopped immediately when I saw a tombstone that haunted me: born, 1973. This girl was born only a few months after me, yet died years ago, I though. I shivered a bit. Maybe it was the wind; perhaps it was that I sensed my own mortality.
In one portion of the cemetery I noticed exceptionally small graves. Children, I realized as I approached. I walked among graves of infants and small children, and saw markers for children whose life was a single day. I tried to imagine what it must be like to lose a child. It certainly is something that is beyond all comprehension, for I could not begin to imagine having a child, let alone losing it.
Since I knew none of the names on the graves, I simply cast my eyes from one to another, looking more at the marker itself than anything: I saw many types in various states. Some were elaborate and ornate. Others were plain metal crosses. And I saw one simple cross of rough wood with no name. Some of the graves had settled unevenly and as a result one corner dipped farther into the earth.
And while all these observations seem only somewhat connected, I realize now that instead they all share in an intimate relationship. Just as all the people on that windy hilltop are acquainted with each other in various degrees (from intimate friends to total strangers), the people resting under the iron crosses and stone markers are acquainted with each other through the passing of life. It is life that brought everyone, whether no living or dead, together on this night, and all my various little observations were sewn into life.
One might imagine that standing in the midst of so much death would be depressing and upsetting. Instead, with the sound of hissing and popping candles and the people quietly paying their respects, it was astoundingly and beautifully peaceful. Regardless of my own doubts about God’s existence, it was a profoundly spiritual experience.
When I first got there I wanted to pull out my camera and immediately begin snapping pictures. Yet there was a sacred and profound peace enveloping everything, and I felt it would be decidedly inappropriate to turn people’s quiet moment of communion with the past into a photo opp for me.
Still, when I found myself sufficiently secluded, I would take a shot or two. As the sun set and the sky darkened, it became easier to move about inconspicuously (and the hilltop became more beautiful), so I took more and more photos.
More impressions: There were many graves for two people, obviously a husband and a wife. And there were quite a few of these that were occupied by only one person. How must that feel to visit the grave of your husband or wife and see beside it the space reserved for you? “If these people wanted,” I mused, “They could come and dance on their own graves.”
The ground was muddy and stuck in clumps to my shoes. I literally took part of the experience home with me.
It was amazing how much light a thousand candles can put off. The hill glowed and the two trees in the center of the cemetery reflected the light. I remember that the intensity of a light is measured in something called candlepower. This was true candle power.
I understand what my parents used to say when we went to funerals: “It’s not for the dead, but for the living.” Such is the case for graveyards, too. Being surrounded as I was by death, I was reminded that though I too will eventually die, right now I am alive. Right now I can still feel the wind and cold drizzle and worry about the candles’ safety in such elements. Right no I can slosh around in the mud, wandering among the graves. Right now I can feel the heat put off by so many candles. So this must by why (at least partially) we fence off areas of the earth to put the bodies of friends and family into the ground and mark the spot with a bit of granite, wood, or iron.
It is also a link to one’s own past. That is part of the reason I felt like such a tourist: I was not intimately connected with anyone buried there. And yet I could tell that the woman standing beside the grave of the 18-year-old wasn’t in the moment. She had soared back through time and was with that boy even though her body remained in the present. Cemeteries then are time machines.
9:36 p.m.
I just returned form the cemetery. Ela had said that there would be a lot of people there around 8:00. So I headed up there around half past, and she was right: many, many people there.
As I entered the graveyard, I heard a voice projected by a loudspeaker. Most people were turned toward the large cross that towers above all else. (It must be twenty to twenty-five feet hall.) The priest would say something, then everyone would reply in chant. At one point there was a kind of call and answer between the men and the women. Soon after that the priest said something and during the pause which followed, everyone moved in closer to the central cross. There was what I assumed to be a sermon. Then the chanting resumed. The women kept beginning their portion with (if I can remember the Polish), “Swieta Maria, matka Bozu . . . or “Holy Mary, Mother of God.” There was a bit more singing, then the crowd broke and filed (like in a pilgrimage) back down the hill.
I saw several of my students there. Rafał was lighting a candle behind me when I first arrived. I saw Magda (IIA) shortly after that. She asked me, “Why are you here?” followed by, “Do you know what this is?” After explaining that everyone was praying to the dead (or for the dead, that they might get into heaven; I’m not sure what she meant), she moved on with Agnieszka. I saw several of my primary school students too. And, not too surprisingly, Beata was there too. “Czesc Gary!” she said as she strode past me.
Right before I reached the road I heard someone call out my name. It was Marion. He and I talked briefly. I told him that it was the first time I’d seen such a thing. He told me that it had been a much smaller crowd last year. After a slight pause, he indicated that he had to return to the church and we parted company.
Now for some thoughts about the experience: first, I felt a little strange as I remained silent while everyone prayed and chanted. Of course I couldn’t very likely have joined them. Still I did feel a little out of place at times. It was also strange how many different entities they were praying to. It seems that they (Catholics) pray to almost everyone – saints, Mary, angels – everyone but God. Of course when the final prayer concluded, I was the only one not making a sign of the cross on my chest.
Standing there I marveled at the two-fold power represented by such a gathering. First there was the power of common belief that brought all those people together on this cold, rainy night. Second, there was the potential power of all those people acting together, working toward one goal. While there is no common ideology between tonight’s events and what happened in Germany sixty years ago, I couldn’t help but think that what happened in Nazi Germany exhibited both kinds of power as well. Nazis and lynch mobs are examples of what happens when such forces combine and produce evil; tonight’s sense of community was an example of what happens when such forces combine and produce good.
And there was a strong communal feeling at tonight’s gathering. It had a strange effect on me, for I was able to see briefly into the non-school, private lives of my students. For example, as I watched Rafał light a candle, place it on a grave, and stand silently and respectfully, I saw not the sometimes-arrogant, sometimes-disruptive kid from IIB. Instead I saw a young man quietly paying his respects (cliché?) to a presumed family member. Everyone gathered tonight not as students and teachers, shop owners and customers, but as people, as residents of a small village in southern Poland.
(It is raining heavily now. I wonder how many of the candles will die. There were many with covers, probably provided for such an event.)
Tonight provided a perfect example of the power of tradition in the Catholic Church. There were so many things done in the name of Christianity that were completely extra-Biblical. The declaration of the saints, the prayers to Mary, the crosses and the crossing of themselves, the whole celebration itself – all these things (and more, I’m sure) are done and expected in the effort to be a good Christian. And yet not a single one of those things has any Biblical precedence.
I didn’t see Robin or any of the folks from the Haven tonight. I hope they came down to see tonight’s celebration. It would be a shame to be in Poland on All Saints’ Day and not go to a graveyard to see all the candles.
I accomplished nothing today. I was going to devote some time to serious study of Polish. Yet I did nothing. Of course I did experience a truly wondrous afternoon and evening. Perhaps that makes up for it
I’m going to return one last time . . . until next year anyway.
Morning Thoughts
Another new month in Poland. Five months ago I was getting up, the beginning of the first day of this whole adventure. As I lay in bed this morning, far from that bed back home, I realized the first sensation I felt that morning was the usual frustration of having to get out of bed still tired: “Why can’t I just go back to sleep?” Yet that morning it was so different because by going back to sleep I could have escaped (or at least forgotten about) the anxiety that gripped me like a vice as I realized, “The day has finally arrived . . .”
Of course then there was the hellish ride to the airport. I remember two things about that trip: First, I ate sausage biscuits and had a huge glass of milk, realizing it was probably the last time I’d have such a combination. Second, I remember that we took the van, and as might be expected, it started “acting up.” I honestly didn’t care whether it broke down. Perhaps I even secretly wished it would. Other than that, I really don’t remember anything about that trip.
I was in a daze at the airport. Standing in line to check my bags, I just stood there in a numb haze. I didn’t know what to say. What does one say to the three most important people in his life in the waning moments before such a drastic and complete separation? So I just stood there, inching my bags forward.
It’s such a strange thing to be thinking of those painful, wretched moments now, when they are so far away. I am for the most part content now. It was a storm to be weathered, that’s all.
One thing I’ve been thinking of lately is how difficult it will be to leave this place. I am already so attached to many of my students; after teaching them for two years, it will be a hellish time when I say goodbye. I can understand why leaving PC is more difficult than leaving home. When you leave home for the PC, there is a virtual certainty of eventual return; when I leave LW there will be no guarantee that I’ll ever come back. I knew I’d see my parents and Chhavi again at some point; when I leave here I might never again see these people whom I now see on a daily basis.
Saturday Routine
I made a trip to Nowy Targ today: rewarding and disappointing at the same time. I was going to see a movie, but I didn’t know how I would get back to Lipnica from Jabłonka (little did I know there was a bus that would have done the trick). Charles wasn’t in town. He went to Zakopane with Sue R. and the Tippets. (That is virtual confirmation that it was Kevin that tried to call.) Yet while I was alone all day and unable to see a movie, it was a good day: I bought a lot of food. I even found broccoli. (I made Ramen noodles with broccoli and some mushrooms – not bad at all.) I got some cappucino, too. It’ll be like being back and Radom, except Piotr won’t knock on the door, “Excuse me . . .”
So it’s another Saturday night and I am wondering whether I should go to the disco or not. It would be good to get out, yet the prospect of encountering my students in a social setting doesn’t thrill me. (There’s a good argument for a drinking age, no?) To be sure, I do not want to encourage anything along those lines. I have decided for the most part that I will stay here unless someone comes and invites me. Even then I don’t know that I would go.
I was thinking about money (of all things, huh?) last night. Money, in theory, is merely proof that one has contributed to society in some way, and therefore s/he is deserving something in return. Theft and unearned, “old” family money shoots this theory full of wholes in reality, though. Still, it is the basis of capitalism: You only deserve bread if you’ve helped someone in some manner. I would explore this some more, but money is of very little interest ot me.
Riding and Hiking
Seven lessons, a bike ride to the top of Lipnica, then a hike up Babia – any wonder I’m tired? I am actually well beyond that. I was mentally exhausted before I left for Babia; now I’m just a little numb all over. I’m even having trouble putting the day in order.
Classes went fine today. It was a huge day, but I survived. Around March I will be hating Tuesdays with a totally overwhelming passion. I even managed to make it through IIB. I think they really dislike me by this time. Such is life – I’ve only got to deal with them twice a week.
The trip up Babia was exhausting but well worth the effort. There were about four different terrains on the way up. First, a well-logged and rather sparse pine forest. Then we followed a creek for a while, and it really had an Abbram’s Fall feel. Then it just headed straight up the mountain, like going to Skagg’s Gap. Finally, the forest broke to low shrubs with occasional pine trees no more than twenty feet tall. We didn’t make it to the top, though. We probably had another twenty to thirty minutes to get there. Next time, maybe.
Closing thoughts: From a couple of vantage points I could see the Tatra Mountains in the distance. They jut up from the plains like the Rockies: suddenly and almost unexpectedly. They are not smooth and pristine (like Babia) – they are ragged and haphazard, with sharp peaks. A mist/haze obscured the view a little bit, but Roy said it was about as clear as he’d ever seen it. It was a magnificent site.
Hours and Worries
More rain–two days of good weather are history. This morning I saw the grey sky and thought, “Good, back to normal.” After all, who wants sun? Who needs a bright day? This is just another new things I must get used to, I guess.
I had a word with the headmistress of the primary school. I went in with the intention of dropping my hours in classes V and VI. As might be expected, things got a little more grey than I was hoping for. Here is the situation: The Minister of Education requires eight hours of English in classes V-VIII. Because of the current situation, the Ministry has said that only four will do for now. I took those hours but now am having second thoughts, particularly about V and VI (see 16 September entry). So I talked to Pani Dyrektor about this and here is a summary of the outcome:
Those two hours (V & VI) would have to be picked up by someone, namely Danuta. It is not acceptable for VII and VIII to have English and V and VI not to have it. So if I drop those hours and Danuta doesn’t pick them up, the whole English program would have to be dropped and replaced with Russian. Never mind that there is no one here to teach Russian; rules are rules.
Now Danuta cannot possibly pick up those hours: She’s already teaching five more than she agreed to. With her studies it is impossible. Danuta assures me, though, that Frank will insist that she take those two hours. And if she refuses she could be fired.
That would make for an interesting situation. Instead of needing one teacher they would need two; instead of lacking two hours, they would lack twenty-five. Additionally, if Danuta left I would have to change sites because I must have a counterpart teacher–Dierdre already had to change sites because of a similar problem. So they would have to find three English teachers and they would lack forty-seven hours of English.
I made the decision to continue on the current plan until December. I didn’t want to drop this whole load on them at once, so I’m giving them time to intensify their search for a teacher. (Considering that my light still isn’t fixed, I doubt they’ll meet with much success.)
I hate the way this is turning into a power struggle. If I unload the preceding bomb (and that’s really what it is) on Frank, I risk angering him, for it has the feel of (maybe genuinely is) a power play. I don’t want to anger him so early–I need all the friends I can get at this point.
What I am afraid of is that once these four hours (only two really–I’ll continue with VII and VIII) are covered, the hunt for a teacher will not be as much of a priority. This is only a temporary fix; those lacking two hours should serve to stoke their efforts, to increase the sense of urgency. “Well, we do have Gary and ____ covering those four hours now . . .”
This whole thing is turning into a nightmare. I fear that once I drop these two hours Danuta will be pressured to take these to hours, and she will cave to the demands. “Can’t you live with this? Can’t you solve this problem instead of running away from it? Isn’t that part of the reason I joined PC to begin with?” I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll survive–we’ll survive. It’s just the method of survival seems so vague–cloudy, like the typical sky here.
Here and There Friday
I rode my bike for a couple of hours today. I went up to Kiczory first–road to the end of the road, to the point where the road became someone’s private drive. Babia loomed in the clear sky; her peak was visible for the first time in weeks: it was covered with snow. After that I rode out toward Lipnica Mała. I thought about going on to see LM, but I decided to save that for another day.
All over this area people are out in the fields today. Either taking up the rotting wealth or the water-logged potatoes, people filled the fields. Some were working with horses, others with tractors of various ages and conditions. At some (rather, many, even most) places whole families were working: grandparents, children, grandchildren. I felt a little strange riding around sight-seeing while everyone else struggled to get the crops in — a matter of survival in some sense, I’m sure.
I talked to Roy for a little bit today: I asked him how one goes about meeting people around here. “You don’t,” he laughed. “Besides, most people our age [ what is “our age” anyway?] are already married with kids.” He has a point — but it does seem possible that I could meet some folks, someone I could spend time with, do something — anything.
As I rode around today I encountered several students — my students. It was a nice experience.
Good Place to Be
Glorious weather today! It started gray, as usual, but by the time I was in IA the sun was shining. I literally couldn’t believe it.
This evening I took a walk in the hillside fields behind the school. I only walked half way up–I felt a little conspicuous in my red jacket. Ego again, I guess. I kept looking back at my little part of LW, snapping shots every now and again.
I stood for a moment, just absorbing. “Will this be one of those moments I remember years from now?” I tried to notice everything: The bubbling of the water running down the hill was faint, overpowered by the bellowing of cows (call and answer with one another) and the barking dogs Babia Góra rose in the misty distance, her top obscured by clouds. The steeple of the parish church rose between the crowded graveyard in the foreground and Babia lumbering in the distance. An occasional bleating goat mixed with children’s faint laughter and the ping, bright and clear, of a hammer from an indeterminate direction. My apartment building looked so much smaller. I could see Lipnica winding to my left and right. And as might be expected, I forgot about my anguish of the other night; I forgot that I hate this place (or so I told myself a couple of nights ago), and I thought, “This is a good place to be.”
Field Trip Invitation
I’ve been asked to accompany the school (liceum only) on a trip to the north of Poland, near Gdańsk, I think. I’ve mixed feelings about this: I would like to go, for it would give me an opportunity to get to know my fellow teachers better, as well as my students. My Polish should certainly improve. Yet it is that very thing which worries me. I can just see me with a group of teachers as they chatter away in Polish–I look away at some point, bored out of my senses and exhausted from any attempt to understand them. Plus there is the very real possibility that the folks and C might try to call this weekend. I would hate to miss their call. Yet if I decline I might do something to damage a potentially fragile relationship. Of course, I can’t go around trying to please everyone.
The editor of the local paper asked me to write an article about how I got here, what I think of Lipnica, etc. I wrote it tonight by long-hand–I miss y computer–and I am eager to see what the reaction will be. Perhaps nothing . . .
I Hate This
I hate this. I hate almost everything about this place. I hate the rude shop keeper who is always impatient with me; I hate the apathy of IIB; I hate the rain; I hate my noisy water heater; I hate the mud pit which serves as my front yard; I hate buying food everyday; I hate Polish; I hate the chair I sit in for endless hours at night and on weekends; I hate being lonely; I hate being away from C. I wish I had never been accepted into the Peace Corps. Then I would be going about my merry way, at grad school or teaching in America (of course the apathy would be there, too).
I am becoming more and more reclusive. I teach, then I come straight home. I know no one–I can’t talk to anyone because I can’t understand a word of Polish. I feel so lost, isolated, and helpless. And so lazy.
I could never ET–my pride couldn’t handle it, wouldn’t allow it. I have to stick it out, and that makes me shudder: two years of more of the same of the last three weeks is the most horrible thing I can imagine.
I hate this all–everything.
More Frustrations
I don’t what to do about IIB. They are all chronically uninspired. “To say they are apathetic is to ascribe to them an enthusiasm that is not there,” as I told Chhavi. They are totally unresponsive. I think some of it is attributable to the language barrier, but certainly not all of it. I don’t know what to do about it. IIA is usually pretty bad at the beginning of lessons, but they usually give it some effort later in the lesson: I can live with that. But IIB–words do not describe my level of frustration with them. The group of disruptive guys in the back makes things a little worse, if that’s possible.
One thing that is really bothering me is the difficulty I’m having with names. They’re so, well, foreign. It takes me such a long time. I doubt I will ever learn the names of the kids in 5-8.
Speaking of my primary hours, I had a brief discussion with Danuta about the problems I have there. First of all, one hour a week is practically useless. I will not be able to do anything other than teach them to parrot a few things. Second, the language barrier further impedes the learning process. I have no way of making sure they really understand what I’m talking about. (I think in this case Polish is not only acceptable; it is down-right necessary.) This also makes it difficult to test them, and therefore hard to give grades. Last, and most significant in some ways, the classes are too big. Thirty twelve-year-olds–it’s impossible to keep them under control (i.e. language barrier), even if I could speak Polish like a native. So I have thirty wild kids with only two or three listening to me, probably understanding less than half of all I say. It is a waste of everyone’s time, I fear. I will give it a few weeks, then talk to the headmistress about my thoughts, my fears. Of course Danuta was right when she said that eventually I’ll be asked to teach the additional four hours the Ministry of Education requires. I will flatly refuse. I will patiently wait and see what happens . . .
Sebastian
12:17 p.m.
An interesting thing happened in the store today. As I was paying for my stuff I set down my shopping list–in English, of course–and the shop keeper (I’ve no idea what her name is) took an interest in it. “Aggs?” she said. “Eggs,” I replied with a smile, followed by the Polish. She read the whole list–I translated what she didn’t know. It was good–I’m not quite sure how to explain it. It’s just that I’ve often felt an impatient tension when I go in there. This helped dissolve it to some degree, I think.
I think much of these kinds of problems come from the fact that: a) I don’t know what is expected of me in many social settings; and, b) I don’t have the linguistic tools necessary to fulfill those expectations. I fear that people think I am being rude when it’s simply a matter of ignorance. “Stranger in a strange land . . .”
9:35 p.m.
I just returned from Mountain Haven–what a wonderful experience! I’ve no idea how to describe my reaction. I can only record my impressions and what I did.
I first met a group of girls–the only name I remember is Sarah. They were about nine or ten, if that old. They kept asking me for a souvenir–I had nothing to give them. I was with them for a few minutes. Then I met Sebastian . . .
With his snaggle-tooth grin and excitement, Sebastian made an immediate impression on me. He is one of the most affectionate children I’ve ever met. Seven years old, he was a strong boy for his age. When he hugged me and shoved a loving kiss on my cheek, I realized why everyone had told him, “Gently!” I spent a while playing “basketball” with him. “I am a good basketball player,” I taught him to say. I also played soccer, baseball, volleyball, and tennis with him. He was a big energy producer. I was exhausted after a few minutes of trying to keep up with him.
I wonder what the future holds for little, loving Sebastian. His father killed his mother–he’ll probably end up in an orphanage. Who knows what will become of him then? It’s an awful thing to say, but given his present conditions the future doesn’t look bright for him. Yet he is so very bright–maybe he’ll break out and become successful (and more importantly) happy.
How many Sebastians are there in the world? I know that millions of children are worse off than he is, but still, the cards are really stacked against him. The children are always the ones that get the worst of the shit in the world.
It takes a special kind of person to work at Mountain Haven. To se all those kids passing through would kill me. Just tonight I felt so strongly for Sebastian–think if I was with him daily, then suddenly his two weeks are over and he is gone. Yet I want to spend more time there. I guess the risk of attachment is one of that is inevitable. Maybe that’s where the real giving comes from. Yet all my life I will think of Sebastian . . .
Coming back could have been a real nightmare. As I left MH I realized it was terribly dark. I went back to see if I could borrow a flashlight, but they only had one. I began and soon realized that I could only continue on foot: I couldn’t see my hand three inches from my face. After a few minutes one of the MH staff members appeared with a car. He drove behind me with the lights on bright so I could see where I was going.
It rained all day again today–it’s unreal how much rain can fall in a two-week period. It aade me so mad as I struggled up to MH. It does no good, for the weather is certainly out of my control. I realize this fully. Still, I’ve really had quite enough rain . . . So has everyone else, I’m sure. The hay in the fields is rotting; any unharvested corn is likewise rotting on the stalk. At least I’m not taking a monetary loss . . .
Good Morning!
While hurrying to the store across from the church I encountered one of my students, pulling/leading two cows up the road, presumably taking them into the barn for the evening. I waved at him, smiling. He grinned and waved back. As I neared the shop I noticed another student riding toward me on her small bike. I could tell that she was getting ready to greet me. A smile shot across her face and she said, “Good morning!” at 5:55 p.m. “Hello!” I said in response. If these two encounters are indicative of what these two years will be like, then I can only say that I look forward to them with great anticipation.
I had six lessons. I was so very tired when the last one finally rolled by. I think things went rather well, but that didn’t change the fact that I was hardly able to stand at the end of the day. I hope things at least maintain for the next two years. Deterioration of class morale could be quite a blow to me, but I think things will only get better.
Regret
This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. It was all I could do to keep from walking out on IIB this afternoon. The chaos of VI combined with the late students in II was just too much. To begin with, I have no teeth concerning tardiness. You’re late–so what. You’re not even considered “late” until it’s at least fifteen minutes. It’s like saying, “Don’t murder, but if you do, we’ll write down in a little notebook that you murdered and then, oh, won’t you be sorry!” It’s a fucking joke to say that there’s even any such a thing as tardiness. Second, I can’t even communicate the most basic things with 99% of my students. This is going to be the most hellish two years of my life–that is assuming of course that I can survive this first damn semester.
10:10 p.m.
I’ve calmed down significantly since I wrote that. I am not sure where all the frustration went, but I am now determined to beat these kids at their own game. I’m going to teach them whether or not they want to learn.
What is really surprising is the difference between the classes. In IA they are almost falling over themselves volunteering. In IB they are reserved; in II they are comatose. I don’t know what the problem is but it will not defeat me!
I taught V and VI today for the first time. What an experience! Imagine trying to keep 10-12 year-olds on task when you don’t share a common language! I don’t know what I’ll accomplish with just one hour a week in each class. But anything is better than nothing, right? Let’s hope that cliché is true.
First Impressions
Second class went much better today. I am relieved. I hope I am not going too far in saying that I have given them some hope that my classes will be somehow different from what they are used to. First class went fine, but I am a bit worried about my inability to communicate with them.
One thing that made me feel so good in class is that I got many of them to smile. I don’t know how many Polish teachers even do that.
A few words on the Polish education system: It seems that most teachers (in the past anyway) never treat students with respect. In fact, some of the things I’ve heard about border on contemptuousness. Many of the teachers ridicule students. I hope that my different (hopefully respectful) approach will yield good results. I want to help these kids–maybe this will help.
First Day Teaching
I begin tomorrow with back-to-back periods with II. Since the class is not yet split up I will have to do two lessons. After today’s apathetic reception I am a little nervous about this. I have two lessons prepared, but they both rely entirely on active class participation. We shall see . . . All the same, I refuse to be defeated by these students. Frustrated, yes; beaten, no.
So, now I’ve met all my students. I have two first-year classes, a second-year class, and four hours a week in the primary school. In general, they’re all (mostly) beginners. This is good because it makes it easier to determine where to start. It’s bad because nie mowi du o po polsku. Musz mowi troche po polsku bo moja clasa nie rozumie duzo angelskiego. Mysle, ze jest najlepsz ze ja mowi tylko po angelsku, albo bede mowic po polsku czasami. It could be good for me because I will have to learn a bit of new Polish vocabulary to cover the time until I can speak tylko English. Tam bedzie dobry dzien!
First First Day
The first day of school is now behind me. Nothing much happened: introductions, a brief speech from the headmaster, then the mayor–nothing to speak of.
A minor tragedy happened while someone was speaking: a girl fainted. She was standing behind a crowd of people. She slipped forward through everyone, falling limp in the floor. Her head hit the hardwood floor with a thump that had a sickening echo. Several male teachers rushed to her. She came to and was taken from the room. I don’t know what else happened to her–I didn’t see whether she returned.
I finally received some kind of schedule, but it is still not finalized, for against my better judgment, I picked up four more hours (at the primary school). So I have twenty-two hours in four days, for I did manage to get Friday off.
I’ve mixed feelings about this: On one hand, eighteen hours is the minimum a teacher can have and I felt a little guilty having so few in comparison to Danuta. Yet my inexperience makes me understandably anxious about it. I want to do a good job, and if I am spread too thin . . .
Of course that is not the only thing: I will be teaching first year students. This will have its advantages and its problems. For one thing, my work is cut out for me. I know exactly what I must teach them. Yet communication will be tough at first owing to my virtually non-existent Polish. I remember my frustration in Polish class when the teachers would not speak any English (some, anyway). Now it will not be a question of willingness, but ability.
First Bike, First Ride
I was supposed to go to Mike’s in Jabłonka tonight – well, I told him I might. But I was simply too tired, for I rode my bike back from Nowy Targ today: a 40+ kilometer ride that I did in two hours, forty minutes. It was an utterly exhausting experience. Just after you get out of Nowy Targ there is a long stretch of road which is straight with slight hills, most of which are slight inclines than ever really present the welcome downhill slope I was seeking. I must say that I felt a little like Sysyphus, for each time I got to the top of one hill, another loomed in the distance.
I felt such astoundingly intense pain in my legs at some points. My thighs burned for the last hour and a half and my left knee began aching after a while. Yet I knew there was no way I could stop. What choice did I have? Yet the utter necessity of the journey did nothing for my legs.
Of course that was not enough pain for me – I went to Danuta’s about an hour after I got back home. I did not know that the whole six kilometers are a gradual slope . . . upwards. The pain in my legs returned and only intensified as I went along. The advantage is that the return trip was much faster and with a little less pain.
Consummer
Today has been quite a day for me. I bought a bike (even though I told my folks I would wait), bed clothes, and spices (including basil and soy sauce). And I finally got my bank account set up. I do think Danuta was getting tired of worrying with that whole mess. I am glad it’s over, too.
I had a brief talk with Roy this afternoon, rather evening. He told me my lighting problem will not get fixed until I become really upset about it. Such cynicism – it is quite, well, not depressing but a little disheartening. I don’t know what I would expect, but not that.