A Longer Update

This is the way a blog ends
This is the way a blog ends
This is the way a blog ends
Not with a bang, but a shupdate.

Not really.

I just feel bad that my last post was a post promising to post more often. It always seems that that's the last thing you see on a blog about to die. "I'll write more soon, guys! Just super busy!" Three years later, Blogger shuts it down due to lack of updates.

In truth, I just got really, really busy. Around mid-November, I start working with a certain organisation in Sudan. I worked at the school and the organisation for about a month, which meant beginning at 8am and finishing sometime around 10pm. It was brutal.

Eventually, I decided to take a job with the organisation full-time. I loved the kids I was teaching, but the school itself was more than I could handle. I've heard stories of bad administration, etc., but this was a different level. I won't bore you with the details, but in the end, I felt that taking a job with the organisation was better in terms of what I want to do long-term, as well as a good way to leave the school drama behind.

That meant that sometime in early December, I sadly - very sadly - bid 23 six-year-olds adieu and went to work for the organisation full-time. Unfortunately, this did not mean more time for blogging. On the contrary, it meant more time spent working. There were weeks in which I worked no fewer than 16 hours a day. Fortunately, however, the position was great experience. Plus, it was only short-term, so I did not have to keep up such a pace forever.

It ended in mid-February. On 22/2, I hopped a flight home (telling only my sister and two trusted friends in Atlanta). I managed to surprise my mom just in time for her birthday and then kept things going by popping into a party with shocked friends that weekend.

All that to say that I am now back in Atlanta. As I write this, I am laying in my comfy, comfy bed, listening to the rain outside, drinking water from the tap, and not worrying about failing electricity. There are worse things for one to be doing.

I'm not sure what's next. A big part of me wants to stay in America and simply enjoy being in my mid-20s. It's time to have a real social life - a real dating life - if only for a year or so.

I don't think I'm exactly done with Africa either and I'd still like to make my way over to Southeast Asia. For now, however, I'm just focused on the next few months.

In terms of this blog, I'll certainly keep it going. I've still stories to tell and experiences to share. If nothing else, I still need to write out the Mr Wang's Part II, the sequel to this post. What's more, I've finally managed to change the address for Another Window. Instead of tjo85.blogspot.com, you can now get here via AnotherWindow.blogspot.com.

In addition, I'm now working on another project...

Short Update = Shupdate?

I'm working. A LOT. Sorry for not posting sooner. I'll write more when I can.

Also, sorry for the shitty portmanteau.

Abdulla vs. The Sandwich

"Eat it."

"Nooooooooooooo."

That "no" erupts on instinct from the lips of a first grader. It starts at the back of the throat and forces the tongue against the roof of the mouth before bursting forward as a full-on whine.

"Eat it. You know the deal."

"Nooooooooooooo."

The boy doesn't have the shrillness of his female peers, so the whine isn't ear piercing. Instead, it's one of those elongated protests behind which is a thinly veiled sense of defiance. With every whine, he knows that he's pushing the limits of my authority. What he doesn't understand is that if he just ate, he would be free to go play with his friends.

"Abdulla! You have to eat."

"No!"

This time the outburst is followed by a giggle. He's trying to turn this dance into a game.

"Abdulla," I say in an even tone as I squat down to eye level. "You're not leaving this classroom until you eat it."

His dark brown eyes meet mine. He knows he's stuck. He knows I'm serious.

"OK. One bite..." he replies.

"I don't bargain with six year olds. The whole thing or we sit here all day."

He looks down at what's left of his sandwich. Knowing that he'll never eat the whole thing, I've already torn off a quarter of it and placed it in front of him. The rest of it goes back in his baggage. Hopefully it will serve as evidence to alert his parents that he doesn't like their crap lunches.

Reluctantly, he pulls off the tiniest piece of bread. We sit in silence as he chews and sulks. This could take a while.

So goes lunch for Primary 1B. It starts around 10:10 when I dismiss the kids, row by row, to go wash up. Nearly all of them dash out of the room, dabble water on their hands, and race back. I've had to start feeling their palms to ensure that they at least made some attempt at washing.

Then they dig in. It actually looks like lunchtime anywhere in the West, save for them eating at their desks, as the school lacks a lunchroom. Lunch boxes with cartoon characters are pulled from backpacks, thermoses too big hands for their small hands are carefully placed against their tiny lips, and that generic lunch smell - a mixture of savory meats, white bread, and sugary juices- wafts through the classroom.

"He take my juice!"

"She eat my chip!"

My kids still have trouble with the past tense. I respond with the usual round of mediation.

"Ahmed, give the juice back."

"Fajr, don't eat Abdul Rahim's chips."

Sitting at the front of the classroom is Abdulla. By now, he's taken out his juice and sucked it down. Next, he'll pretend he doesn't have a sandwich in his backpack.

"Abdulla, get out your food."

"I no have sandwich!"

"Yes you do. Get it out."

Little Mawada comes up to me, juice in hand. She doesn't want me to open it for her. Instead, she shows me that she can do it herself. I tell her how strong she is and declare her the conqueror of juice. She flexes her tiny arms and smiles. 

Abdulla looks on, a plastic bag now sitting on his desk. I pick it up and remove a hot dog bun with cold, smelly hard boiled eggs inside. Looking down at it, I try not to gag. I tear off a quarter and quickly put the rest back in the bag. I can't blame the kid for not wanting to eat that.

"No!"

"Yes. Eat it or you don't go play."

And so it begins.

After another ten minutes, I dismiss the class to go play outside. Abdulla remains and the dance begins.

I ask him what he actually does like to eat.

"Pizza. Cake. Cheese."

"You had a cheese sandwich yesterday and you still didn't want eat it."

"Oh... but this, this I don't like," he says holding up the sandwich. I back away as not to smell it again.

"And what do you call that kind of sandwich?"

"I don't know. I don't know the English for it."

I don't know why, maybe I was feeling sorry for the kid, but I decided to break one of my bigger rules.

"Bil Arabe... bedt. Aye?"

His eyes wide, he slowly answers.

"Aye"

"In English we call it 'egg.'"

"Egg," he says, slowly turning the word over with his tongue.

All I said was "In Arabic... egg. Yes?" However, I knew this would be enough to send him into shock. The kids are awed when any white person speaks even a hint of Arabic. They suddenly think I'm fluent, which throws them off course. Now, they figure they can't get away with anything. It gives me full authority again.

Unsure what else to do, Abdulla quickly finishes the sandwich and I let him go play.

Remember all those times your mom told you that there were starving kids in Africa; kids who would love nothing more than to tuck into the dry London broil sitting before you? Well, there's kids just like us here too. Kids who just want to eat pizza and cake instead of nasty sandwiches filled with eggs.

Maybe next time his mom sends him in with some gross lunch, Abdulla will go home and tell her that there are middle class kids in Atlanta who wouldn't eat this crap either.