A Day in the Life--Palau

A Day in the Life—Palau

6:20 a.m. Wake up. Curse, slam my alarm off. Back to sleep.*
*Nice to know some things never change, eh?

6:40 a.m. Wake up for real: go shower and get ready.

8:00 a.m. Begin tekoi er Belau tutoring with J, our librarian.

8:11 a.m. I learn—to my shock, dismay, horror—that there is no word for “perfect” in the Palauan language. Decide that, evidently, I cannot live here long-term.

10:30 a.m. I am introducing persuasive essay writing to my 8th graders today. I love this lesson. In a nutshell, here's how it works:
I make them a ridiculous proposition (in this case, “we should have school six days a week, Monday through Saturday”)
After voting to make sure that they disagree with me wholeheartedly, I—through wily, skillful argument—manipulate my unsuspecting victims from outraged argument into strong agreement
Then, finally—this being the coup de gras, my favorite part of the lesson, of course—, I reveal the trick (“Just kidding—I was only arguing. You got punk'd!”), make some Ashton Kutcher-esque gesture, and go on to explain the basic structure of an argumentative paper. (The lesson from the trick being, of course, that—as Nick Naylor might say-- “The best thing about arguing is that, when you argue correctly, you are never wrong”.)

Now, when I taught this lesson on Kosrae, it worked flawlessly, my trusting little cherubs eating up my every word with a spoon, then starting in genuine shock and surprise once they realized that they had been tricked. Here, however, my students interrupt me every couple of minutes to ask: “Teacher, is this for real?”
[Aw, how cute! It just warms my heart to know that, as a teacher, I have succeeded in projecting an appearance of professionalism, knowledge, and...untrustworthiness. Well done, Megan. :)] Anyway, each time they ask, I unblinkingly assure them (with equal measures of hurt and surprise in my tone), “of course! You think I would lie to you?”

“Yes.”

Surprisingly, they eventually settle enough that I can pull off the trick. The kids are irate.

“See! We knew you were lying.” They swear that they will never come to class again. Ah, I think, another class well taught.

12:00 p.m. Lunchtime.

12:45 p.m. The cowbell rings. (And with Christopher Walken nowhere in sight!) Now comes my favorite time of day: Community Toothbrushing. I still remember witnessing this event for the first time, back on my first day at school in September. I had wondered: Where am I? Did I just walk onto a soundstage? Am I being set up? Seriously, 55 kids and 12 teachers brushing their teeth together? I felt as if I had stepped into an awkward (but extremely dentally hygenic) parallel universe.
I have come to believe that the kids have devised a game surrounding this time of day, game being: “Let's see who can make Teacher Ngchui spit toothpaste all over the schoolyard. (Wait and watch.)

12:47 p.m. Put toothpaste on my toothbrush. Start brushing.

B, a precocious 4th grader of mine approaches: “Ngchui, why aren't you wearing any pants?” I almost inhale toothpaste, before looking down and realizing the skirt I'm wearing is transparent. I give her a thumbs-up, meaning, roughly, thanks, B! I appreciate your comment, but I love these undies, so I don't mind all of Ngeremlengui checking them out.

D, an observant 1st grade, comments: “The inside of my mouth is very hot!” I nod sagely, I'll bet it is, I nod, mine is too.

A, a curious 4th grader, peppers me with personal questions:

-How old are you? 23, say my hands.

-Do you have any baby?

Wham-o. Crest violently shooting across the schoolyard as I spit, “NO!”

1:00 p.m. Remember how, as a kid, your favorite subject was PE? Yeah, I never outgrew that. As soon as the cowbell chimes again, I race out to the field. Bats, balls, and gloves have come out. Survey says...we are playing yakyu [baseball].
When I find out that I am on one of the teams, I am stoked. I am extremely competitive (some would say “too competitive,” those “some” being “wimps who like to lose.”); I can't wait to help my team grind the other team into the playing field. Bring it!
We are fielding first. I ask my kids (3rd and 4th graders, mind you): “where should I play?” They gesture somewhere around center field. I'm mildly offended, but figure: hey, they must be really good at fielding then. I'm sure they've got it covered. They don't. It's one of those long, painful innings where, as a spectator, you'd have time to, say, buy a hotdog, drink a beer, and debate the nature of man, time, and God with your neighbor, with time left over to make a phone call or two.
After witnessing error upon error, becoming more and more disgruntled, I cannot wait for my turn to bat and save my team at the bottom of the inning. When I look at the batting order, however, I see that I am far down the list—sixth or seventh, at least. I then watch our first three hitters strike out. I can't take this any more. As we head out to field, I (oh so coyly) ask: “Which base should I play?”
“First.” Sweet. I am their play maker, their Hank Aaron, their A-Rod. Give me your tired, your poor, your third foul tips yearning to be caught...
First batter smacks it hard to SS. He catches it, the runner's halfway to first--
“Here, here!” I cry, smacking my glove, adrenalin pumping.
S rockets the ball to me, as I hold my glove out and watch the ball's progress as it heads straight to me and—smacks me in the kneecap at around 80 mph.
I am on the ground, yelling words I am to tell my students not to use.
“Teacher, teacher, are you okay?”
I hobble off the field. I should not quit my day job. Oh, wait. This is my day job.

4:00 p.m. Finished with my work, I head home. Though my mom has offered me a ride, I feel like walking: the sky is perfect blue, the sun is shining, and who doesn't want to walk after taking a hardball to the kneecap? As I walk, I often like to fantasize about what I will eat when I get home. Today, the object of my desire is a Dulche de Leche Luna bar. I slowly, gently undress it, picturing its silky smoothness, its lovely golden hue. I begin to salivate as I luxuriate in its taste—the memories, the imaginings, the possibilities...so sweet, so caramelly, so not-found-in-Palau-and-only-coming-every-so-often-in-a-care-package-of-awesome.

4:15 p.m. By the time I reach the door, I can barely work my key I'm so entranced by the bar I'm about to eat. I rush to the kitchen, open my food box, remove the bar, and unwrap the wrapper to find...my lovely energy bar CRAWLING WITH ANTS.
I feel a rush of emotions—anger, hurt, sadness, hunger, and, above all, confusion: the bar was fully wrapped. HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET IN THERE???
As the ants begin to crawl from my the bar to my arm, I walk across the room, possessed of purpose. There is only one thing to be done. I walk to the sink, run water over the bar, and—stick it in my mouth. I chew and smile. Nothing like an energy bar with a little extra protein.

4:45 p.m. Snack time over, it's time to lift weights. (By “lift weights,” that is, I mean “do squats, lunges, dead lifts, etc. with a backpack full of rocks and other heavy shit.”) All's going well; in fact, as I'm in the middle of a set of (backpack-enhanced) lunges, I find myself thinking, Ha, to think that some people fork out money for gyms! All's I need is my hilltop, a step, and a backpack full of rocks.
Now come military presses. For a military press, I need to lie on my back, hold my pack to my chest, and push the pack up and down, like I'm doing a bench press only, well, without the bench. I hold the pack, exhale, and push up until—I lose my grip on the (weirdly-weighted) pack. Before I can think, let alone move, my backpack has come crashing down straight onto: a my right eye. After screaming a few expletives, I get up and go look in the mirror. I am bleeding—swell. Not only do I have to explain the yelling to my family, tomorrow I will also get to explain to my students why I look like I ended up on the losing side of a bar fight. And the importance of spotters.

8:15 p.m. After a shower, dinner, and, of course, “Mr. Bean,” I am sitting in my room lesson planning for the next day. (As they say, no time like the last minute!) I hear a rustling, pause. I decide to ignore it—probably one of the cats outside. Then again. And that's when I see him: a giant red figure, beady eyes staring at me, little mind whirling as to where in my room it's about to go hide and lay one million tiny disgusting cockroach eggs.
Adrenalin a-pump, I gingerly grab a shoe from my closet, all the while my eye never leaving the little red intruder. I carefully raise my shoe in the air, take aim, and—SMACK! I slam down with all my might on the sucker.
“Gotcha, sucker!!” I shout.
I pause. Wait a second, I think to myself, gazing slightly impressed and yet, slightly disturbed at my reflection on the interior of my window, did I just shout at a cockroach?

10:30 p.m. As I'm about to turn in, I realize I have a problem. Now, this past Christmas, I asked for a French press, with which I could make real coffee. When my wish came true, I was overjoyed.
“Show us how it works!” said my family, intrigued.
“No problem,” said I, nonchalantly. (After all, I was a barista before I joined Peace Corps—I could do this in my sleep.)
I pull the press from the box and open my bag of beans.
“So, you just put the beans in there and put in water, and it makes coffee?” they ask.
“Ye—es,” I reply, slightly less sure of myself. Is that really all there is to it?
I measure out a spoonful of beans, pour in my hot water, put the press in, and sit, waiting for the magic to happen.
“It's not changing color,” my sister G commented.
“Give it time,” I reply, “it takes a couple of minutes.”
And so we wait. Two minutes, five minutes...and still, all we are looking at is a container filled with clear water and brown beans.
“Oh shit!” I have remembered. “When I had to grind coffee at S, we had to ask 'is that for regular, cone filter, or French press?'” I am a dumbass. “What should I do?” I ask my mom.
She turns, goes to a drawer, rummages through it. I'm thinking she'll emerge with a grinder, a blender, or--
“A taro spanker?” [This is a small wooden club, used for spanking taro.]
“It should do the job.”

And so, at 10:30 tonight, I am to be found out in our kitchen, spanking coffee beans.

And such is my life.