An Argument for Optimism

I realized yesterday, that I haven't yet written about my neighbors, one of whom is my closest friend here in Berlin. This occurred to me yesterday evening as I was perched irresponsibly on the book carrying rack on the back of Patricia's bike cruising (if you could call our wobbly, stilted progress that) down the street towards Karl-Marx Allee. The cold, damp, sunless onset of winter, combined with the wear and tear of living in a foreign country had been grating on our nerves a bit. We discussed this as we sat drinking tea in her perpetually smoky kitchen talking about what we could do to take the edge off the winter/being foreign blues. I admitted that at the drug store the other day I bought a sock knitting kit on impulse. I had stared at the thing in my hand, and decided that I really had little chance of actually finishing a functioning pair of socks like those promised by the picture, despite the pledge on the front that the instructions included were "easy" and "for beginners." Fully conscious of this, I decided to buy it anyway. At the very least the rush I got from throwing down six euros impulsively for a project that I will probably never bring to fruition would make the purchase worth it. Ah the cheap thrills of retail therapy...

Patricia then suggesting taking up painting. It helped me last time I was living abroad, so I told her I was game. She then looked at me sideways, kind of giggled, and said, "hey, I've got this crazy idea. But, if you're not game just say so. It's kind of stupid, but I've always kind of wanted to do it." I was intrigued. "You wanna go for a bike ride?" The two of us? On your bike? I asked. "Yeah, my bike's got this basket-rack thing on the back." I think back to all the times I've seen kids on the verge of inflicting serious harm on themselves due to such antics. I watch them coolly, but at the same time envying a little bit their stupid fun. So there I was, riding side saddle on her thin wire book rack, hopping off every few minutes when I would hear the wheel starting to singe my coat. It was fabulous. A feeling I don't often get anymore, and appreciate all the more because of its rarity. Stupid fun.

We both felt a lot better by the time we stumbled laughing back up to her apartment. I stayed for dinner at her place, where her Italian roommate's friend Elisa was cooking up pasta. I asked Patricia what she had planned for Thanksgiving. She shrugged. Thanksgiving for Patrica has never been the traditional turkey-centric holiday of my family. Her parents moved from Brazil to the US, where Patrica was born, and consequently prefers traditional Brazilian food for their Thanksgiving celebrations. Her roommates were interested and insisted that we should make dinner. They asked what Thanksgiving was all about. I explained that it was similar to their harvest fest in fall, but more historically unique and significant. I explained that it celebrated the feast the pilgrims and Native Americans shared after the pilgrims had their first successful harvest with the help of the Wampanoags. And then they piped up "You mean, before they killed them all?" Hmm... somehow I don't think they got the idea. (I'd also like to point out here that while the settlers were quite good at the killing, their Native American contemporaries did not just lie around waiting to be killed. They were very able warriors themselves, not the naive innocents that such a comment implies. Particularly our Wampanoag friends.)

Their glib comment made me want to go find out more about the actual historical background of Thanksgiving. According to journal entries made by the pilgrims at the Plymouth settlement in Massachusetts, the first Thanksgiving actually did happen. It was a three day celebration in 1621 to which the Pilgrim's invited the Wampanoag people, who had helped them to survive their first winter and plant their first successful harvest. The pilgrims provided most of the food, and the Wampanoags contributed 5 deer. It was actually a very hopeful moment in American history, one that should remind us to strive always for peace. We should not forget the injustices of the past, but if we neglect to celebrate the beautiful and hopeful moments, how can we strive for a better present and future. If the past is reduced to a series of massacres, then how can we have any hope of making a better present for ourselves? How can you hold on to the drive to make things better without the belief that something better exists?

Growing up means realizing that adults are not inherently better people, that their wisdom and benevolence does not always increase proportionally to their years. When growing up our understanding of self and surrounding develop so quickly and steadily that it seems like time will inevitably continue to elucidate the world. At some point though time ceases to increase understanding as before, and experience begins to chip away at hope. I'm beginning to realize that intelligent optimism is very hard to hold on to, that it is much easier to become cynical, hardened, and hopeless. I want to continue to celebrate the things in life that feed hope. It is not easy though. Bad things in life are notoriously good at subjugating the value of the good. If we let it, one hurtful word will carry more significance than 100 loving gestures. Today in an effort to salvage this optimism, and give the good in life its proper place, I chose to find out the true story Thanksgiving.

And now I am going to knit myself a pair of socks.

Back and Boxing

So, I'm back at my blog, which of course means that Alex has crossed the pond and I'm back to my solo life in Berlin. Not bad, but not nearly as fun! We rambled all over the city, ate at lots of great restaurants, and just had a really good time all around. But, now I'm back to my regular life. I've been quite busy preparing a presentation "Globalization: American Perspectives" for a meeting of the English department heads of my school district. Luckily, another Fulbright TA is doing it with me. Man, globalization seems to be all they talk about in school. To me it seems a bit shocking that something so political and inherently moral is required curriculum. I guess it's not the only political and moral topic discussed in school, but somehow I always end up feeling guilty as an American at the end of class. As though, as the resident Ami (sorta like Gringo for the Germans), I were responsible for the McDonaldization of the world. This is all in my head of course. It's starting to get to me, hearing every day about American companies trampling over the cultures of the world and enslaving the little children of the third world. So yes, now I'm doing a presentation on this beloved topic of the Germans.

In addition to my regular school day and preparation for tomorrow's presentation, I went to boxing today. This was my second go around at the University boxing gym where I will be training this year. The class was quite full, and this time there was even another woman there, who was new to boxing, but very experienced in Karate. She's quite tough, and not at all arrogant. I like her. The guy who stepped in for the main trainer was quite the opposite, and managed to tick me off in good order. He was clearly just another student who had done some box, but he was quite interested in criticizing me on some almost insulting points. He talked to me like I was an idiot. He might have mistaken my blank look for a lack of intelligence. My blank look was rather born of my absolute disinterest in his opinion. I felt a little guilty for being so cool, so I explained to him that I was from the US and had yet to learn box jargon auf deutsch. He responded with a very heavy accent "Next time we can speak English then." This sealed the deal for me.

After a bit of observation, I think perhaps the disproportionate criticism I'm receiving may be due to the Germans having a different box style. I'm not sure about this yet, but it would explain why this guy only criticized things that I know I learned right, and not the things I'm actually interesting in improving. I must say, the gym is certainly a different style than I'm accustomed to. I've never boxed in a fancy, or particularly modern gym, rather the equipment is usually sparse and well worn, but relatively up to date. This gym makes me think of my great grandfather George's boxing gloves that are hanging in our basement at home: Old and puffy, but still in good shape. I half expect this guy to walk through the door at any moment:
The workouts are quite intense, and long. It is hard to box for 90 minutes. I'm used to 45 minute sessions, and even then at the end I'm totally kaput. At least we didn't have to jump for 15 minutes straight this time. The backs of my legs were covered by stripy welts by the time that little warm-up was done. I've decided that I'm a bit clumsy when it comes to jump-roping. Little did I imagine in elementary school while I jumped rope during recess, that I would be doing it 15 years later as a boxer. I suppose if someone had told me then, I wouldn't have been all that surprised. I might have just tried to get a little better at it so that years later I wouldn't have so many welts burnt into the backs of my legs.

A Brief Hiatus

First of all, thank you so much to those of you who have written me comments and emails in response to my posts. It's nice to know you're out there, and it's great to hear from you. As most of you know, I have had a visitor from the US of A for the past week or so. Consequently, I have been neglecting my blogging duties. Bear with me, I will be back in action soon. Due to camera malfunction, I will probably not have many pictures to add. My big camera doesn't get much play on an every day basis.

I have much to tell, so stay tuned, I'll be back soon enough!

The Kindness of Strangers

My room has been transformed from a big empty space with a bed into a real living space by the kindness of strangers. Today one of the teachers at the school and her husband invited me to their home for coffee and cake (the German equivalent of afternoon tea and biscuits), and then brought me across town to my apartment with a trunk filled with wonderful things for my room. Before Grit (my teaching mentor, yes, her name is Grit, as in short for MarGRIT) told me that Helga Rosenbaum had some things for my room she'd like to give me, I don't think I had even heard her name. Not only did she have some things for me, I was informed, but she had offered to bring them to my apartment and pick them up at the end of the year. My jaw dropped when I heard all this. I recently bought a couple rugs for my room in an effort to make things look warmer and more homey, but they kind of just ended up looking silly: two bright patches floating in the emptyness of my room.

So today we drove across the city with two wicker chairs, a coffee table, and a lamp in the back of their small mid-90's Volvo sedan. When we brought all this up to my room, Mr. Rosenbaum set straight to work putting the furniture back together, and Helga began pulling other little wonders out of a bag. She gave me a square basket of apples from her garden, another basket/bowl of colorful squashes, also from her garden, a cork mat onto which she put a set of three tea light candle holders and an apple scented candle and votive. She also pulled out a mug filled with colorful pens, a calander for my lesson schedule, and some other things for my desk (which Grit will bring for me next week.) They bustled around setting things up and I could hardly do more than stand there in shock. I didn't know how to express my deep gratitude for this unexpected kindness. I awkwardly to let them know, but they already knew. In a very typical direct, but not unkind German way, told me that one thank-you was enough. They then promtly disappeared leaving me happy, still in shock. I actually jumped for joy, I'm slightly embarassed to admit. It's not just the things themselves that make me so happy, it's the fact that someone would go out of their way to help me, even without knowing who I am. Helga knew that I was new here in Berlin, and didn't have anything except what was in my suitcases. She knew she didn't need these things, which are from their summer house, and so simply decided that I should have them. It sounds so simple, I needed something that she could give me and so she did. I think that's the way she sees it. But to me it feels like so much more.

And she is not the only one. Marion and Günter not only offered me their home, their food, and their friendship for my first weeks here in Germany, but also sent me on my way with sheets, towels, candles, and many other little things to help me. Grit has let all the teachers know about my situation, and has asked them for any little thing which might help me. Many have obliged, promptly bringing blankets, pillows and whatever else they had around. Grit is going to take time during our upcoming vacations to bring me a desk from her house, and to help me pick up other things from the school basement that the principle has said I could have. This sort of support has been a bit overwhelming. I can't help but hope that someone coming to my country under similar circumstances would be greeted with this kind of support. I would like to think so, but I'm not sure.

Grit is an East German, and proudly so, something that may of may not be relevent. She was born in Thüringen, as were the Rosenbaums. She talks with fondness of East Germany, of all the support she got from the community and the government when she had her first son. When I brought up the wall and the lack of freedom of movement, she attributed this to the Russians. I didn't go so far as to bring up the Stasi. For her, and probably for most East Germans, the Stasi were never an issue. She was just a normal citizen, with no political interests or aspirations. I'm sure it was quite nice for her in the East. When I think about the outpouring of support I've received, I have to wonder if it might have something to do with the communal mentality of the former East. Berlin is a fascinating mix of East and West. I'm still just skimming the surface of the many cultural currents flowing through this city.

The Land of Pilsner

I'm using the oven in my new apartment for the first time. I'm attempting to do a version of cowboy cookies. I say trying because I've run into a few challenges. First of all, the oven doesn't have temperature marked in degrees. Instead it has the numbers one through 10 on a knob. Or is it 1 through 8? Not that it matters, because it doesn't correspond to any degree system I'm familiar with. My roommate says "between 2 and 3 is pretty standard"... The rest of my challenges have been in the realm of ingredients. There are no chocolate chips here as far as I can tell. No big deal, I bought some tasty chocolate and chunked it with a knife. I do, however, take this to be a disappointing indication of the diminished role of chocolate in baked goods here. Also, there is no brown sugar. I improvised with some "beet sugar" or molasses and the regular stuff. The best I could do for vanilla is this packet I found claiming to be "natural." When I opened it, the substance claiming to be vanilla ooooozed out. Vanilla does not ooze. So, I'm going to have to find some sort of proper vanilla stat, but for now, my expectations for the cookies are not that high. I have to say though, the smell of them baking makes me feel right at home.

The one thing I never expected to be missing here, is beer. I thought I was coming to the land of beer. Oooohh, they do have large quantities of it to be sure. The bottles are all .5 L, about one and a half of our beers. In the back of the stores you see what seems to be a very impressive selection of beer. I was excited the first time I saw those rows of crates filled with big bottles for 60 cents a piece. Then I started searching to my favorite varieties, lager, ale, reds, blonds, porters, stouts... I saw Pils, pilsner, pils, pils, pils, pilsner.... on and on, with a few dark beers crowded into small corners. So many rows of beer, such an apparent abundance of variety! Oh the disappointment. Germany is not the land of beer as I was lead to believe, it is the land of Pilsners! Not that I don't enjoy a good Pilsner from time to time, but sometimes I just want more.

I've asked around a bit, and have searched on the internet to try to find a store with a better beer selection. I have always been met with stony replies of "what, you don't like our beer? Our beer is the best. This is Germany! World famous for beer and wurst!" The variety of wurst here is much more impressive than that of beer. I even found on the internet a gentleman in Bavaria looking for a beer store which sells Belgian ales, and one of the responses was "German brewers would never allow for such a thing to enter our land. And I agree with them!" Wow. The poor guy was just looking for a little variety, you know, the spice of life? Oh well, at least they've got lots of wine from other countries. This may not be my year for beer, I'm afraid.

Well, my cookies seem to have come out alright against all odds. The roommates are raving.

Personhood and Politics

My chili is simmering in the kitchen, perfect time to sit down and write a bit about today. Today I had to be at school at 8am, which means I had to be up and moving at 6:30 this morning. This is quite a struggle for a spoiled college student, who spurned outright any class beginning before 10am. At 6am the idea of Grad school looks better and better all the time. Despite my early morning battle to get my body working, I am enjoying classes very much.

One of the classes I assisted in today was a large group in their 12th year. The whole hour was dedicated to them asking me questions about myself, my country, and my impressions of Berlin and Germany. I recognized some of the kids from other groups. Consistently there are a few kids who are brave enough to ask most of the questions, while the rest are quiet listening. Up to this point I've been surprised not to have entertained many political questions. Actually, there has only been one thus far: "What do you think of Bush?" I offered a diplomatic, but also clearly unfavorable response. They actually clapped when I said that I had never been a Bush supporter and was happy to be able to voice my opinion in the last election.

Other than that, politics have been surprisingly absent. When I commented on this to Günter - the 64 year-old husband of Marion, the couple I'm currently staying with - he says probably because they feel so hopelessly impotent in a political system that doesn't care about them, they have lost interest in politics. Somehow I think this is oversimplifying the matter. I think politics, and especially the idea of America, fills and surrounds their bi-cultural lives. I prefer to take their lack of desire to interrogate me on the politics of my country as a sign that they can separate a person from the government under which they live.

This was particularly clear when one of the boys asked me the highly political, but also deeply personal question, "Where were you on 9-11?" I told them that I was in Mexico. I felt the interest of the students peak. I told them how I found out, at first thinking it was a misguided joke of my prank-loving Mexican friends. I told them how it dawned on me that this might not be a joke, and how I felt when I wandered into the international students lounge just in time to see the second tower fall. I told them how alone I felt, how I felt light years away from home, loved ones, and compatriots. As I finished my abbreviated tale of that day, I geared up for the inevitable political follow up questions about the war, and our bellicose leader. None came. A moment of silence followed my little story, and the weight of it lifted. Then came the more questions, about school, teachers, and daily life in the U.S. For some reason this made an impression on me. I was a person, not a flag, a symbol for all the good and bad actions of my government. It was very humane. Or maybe they were just scared to ask the questions they really wanted to ask. It's hard to know.

Classroom (Mis)Adventures

So, here I am IN BERLIN! My new hometown in Germany. It's quite a town. The public transportation is so good, that you can get anywhere in a half hour. It's so good that one of the other kids in the program said she's not getting enough exercise because there is a train stop close to everything. I've also got a high school ID, which means I can ride all public transport for 26 euro instead of 90. It's totally illegal and kind of ridiculous, because I'm 23, but I'm not complaining!

I just got a room in an apartment lined up. It has been very stressful being homeless. I'm staying with a very nice older couple, who have been very good to me. My living situation has actually been pretty good, just very temporary. I went mushroom picking with them last weekend in the area around Berlin. Berlin is strange. There are no burbs, it's just city city, then bam, you're in the woods. Very different from good All-American urban sprawl. It might have something to do with the whole Walled City thing that happened not so long ago. Anyway, I like it.

I had my first solo lesson today (which I'm not technically supposed to do, but they needed someone.) It wasn't too bad. It only took me about 15 minutes to make someone cry. That's a new record for me. So, I went into it having no idea about their English abilities. All the other groups so far have been older, and really good at English. These kids were 8th graders, and didn't understand much of anything. I tried to talk very slowly and do lots of pantomiming. I wanted them to interview each other, I gave them a list of questions, name, place of birth, hobbies, etc. Then I wanted them to introduce their partners, so I could get to know them too. So, some understood this. I went around to each group and tried to help. It was hard because I couldn't use German to explain. I am not supposed to. So, some still didn't get it. I saw one group with all kinds of answers written down, they seemed to get it so I asked if they might want to show the others. The one girl said yes. So I had them get up. The other girl was all confused. She was just supposed to sit there while her partner introduced her, but apparently she didn't understand a word of the whole thing. Her partner had written down her answers, as well as her own. So the girl was all confused, didn't understand what I wanted her to do (which was actually nothing), and she started to cry! Man, What could be worse? I felt terrible! The was a teacher on call who came to help. Meanwhile, the rest of the class is getting riled up. Keep in mind, these are not nice, rich, little prep school kids. This is a tough school. (See picture above - The accompanying article from last May tells of a knife fight in which a kid got seriously hurt) 76% of the kids in school grew up speaking a language other than German. There are kids from just about every country you can imagine in class, all trying to get along. So, when things starting going down hill, I knew the potential for total chaos to break out. I told them to quiet down, and singled out one girl who totally ignored me and seemed to be some sort of leader. I was a little worked up, but I kept my voice calm, and I told her that she had to respect me. Somehow she seemed to get that. Anyway, she chilled out and so did the rest of them. She actually then volunteered to go first. She introduced her partner, and did a good job, and he did the same. Everyone laughed a bit, even the girl who had been crying. And from there on thing went a bit better. Damn, there were a few moments there, where I though hell was going to break loose. Now at least I know there abilities, and I can do things for them that will be more appropriate for there level. Damn it's hard to teach a language you never had to learn yourself. I wish I were teaching Spanish, then at least I would know what it's like to sit on the other side. I think the next lesson will be tear free. It was really intense, I must say..

So, now that I've rattled off that long tale of classroom misadventures, I will sign off for the time being. I've got to get to bed, tomorrow is another school day.