Looking for a Husband

If I was to name the subject I am the least qualified to teach, it would have to be physical fitness. As one of my high school friends pointed out last week, “Hal, you never even came to gym class!” It’s true. Much of my high school career was spent devising ways out of physics, calculus, and physical education, and I am proud to say I was more often than not successful (unfortunately, to the detriment of my muscle mass and mathematical prowess). I am uncoordinated, refuse to run even the shortest distances, and consider kanafeh healthy because it is made from wheat and cheese (and butter and sugar). I am the last person you want leading cardio, handing out diet advice, or training girls in soccer. And yet, that is exactly what I did every week here.

My beautiful aerobics class on our final party day.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, one of the other interns, MJ, and I would team-teach aerobics for two hours. At first, I mainly taught the cardio portion, a task that required me to dig deep down to my seventh grade gym days and watch some Billy Blanks videos. The women then requested dancing, and for a while, I taught a zumba routine to the Shakira song, Loca. Finally, MJ, and I taught various workout circuits together, each one of us demonstrating different exercises.

Although I love my children, their mothers, the women in my aerobics class, are in stiff competition for my heart. Everyday, the women come in covered head to toe in hijabs and abayas, and then strip down into these sexy workout outfits or pajamas. They then proceed to put up even more of a fight about working out than I typically would. But their comments during certain exercises are the class highlights for me. One morning, I was leading some pilates exercises and the women were being particularly talkative and lazy. To punish them, I said we would do forty-five leg lifts (women lay on their sides and lift one leg straight up and then lower it back down) on both sides. One of the women groaned and muttered something in Arabic; in response, the entire room busted out laughing. I looked to Hanin, my Arabic teacher and translator, for a translation. She reddened slightly before saying, “She says she won’t be able to lift her legs to her husband tonight because of you. They all want you to get tired.” For the first time in my life, I was the fittest person in the room.

  

MJ and I took some glamour shots after being made-up.

This past Wednesday was my last class with the women so we had a party. Normally, they only see me without make-up, sweaty, and in frumpy workout clothes. So when they walked into room to find me dressed in a skirt with my hair freshly washed and down, I was met with exclamations of, “Hilary, you are pretty?!” And this got them thinking. One woman decided she wanted to do my hair, and then a couple of the women thought they should do my make-up. Afterwards, I “looked like a bride without a groom,” so another woman offered me her son’s hand in marriage. He is a “wealthy man and well liked; you would be well respected in the Nabulsi community.” I politely declined and then went to dance with some of the women. This too turned out to be a mistake.

Hanin is not only my teacher and translator, but also one of my closest friends here in Nablus. Two weekends ago, I went with her to her brother’s house for Sha’aban, a celebration strictly for females during the month before Ramadan. The women chat, smoke shesha, prepare food, dine, and dance. So Hanin’s family tried teaching me how to dance like an Arab woman, aka shake my hips. And, well, I kind of picked it up. So dancing in front of a roomful of women who had just made me up to look like a bride only solicited appraisals of my physique for their eligible sons, nephews, and brothers.

I was also the topic of discussions in their homes as I came to later learn from their daughters the following day at the pool. As I was playing around with some of my girls in the shallow end of the pool, a couple of them explained that their mothers said I could dance. They wanted to see too! So the girls started dancing around me, singing, and trying to clap me into acquiescing. But I’ve learned my lesson, no dancing in front of women looking for a wife for their men.

Sing Opera, Miss

At one point, I was convinced I was going to become an opera singer. It was not one of those fleeting career affairs I have a tendency for; I lived this one. While some high school students watched TV, I watched performances from my favorite opera singers on youtube. In the back of calculus class, I sat with my calc binder stealthily open to the translation of some German aria I was trying to learn. And if I was ever going anywhere with my IPod, I was listening to opera. Oh yes, I was quite sure of my future.

This week's lesson: found instruments. One of the volunteers
and I helping the kids brainstorm ideas.

Then I went to college. I am still not sure what exactly changed, but all of a sudden, music became terrifying. In particular, I came to dread performances. Back in high school, I would sing in the practice rooms, fully aware that everyone on the floor and the one below could hear me. However, my first semester in college, I tried to sneak into the practice rooms on weekend evenings, when I could rest assured that people were at parties and not in the building. It did not take long at all, one semester, and my confidence was sapped. I could not sing. I certainly could not sight read. I was not that talented, and I had no future in music.

My translator, Mohammad, and I talking with one of the
groups about their found instrument composition.

When I interviewed for my internship this summer, I mentioned a background in music. Although I may have lacked confidence, I knew it was the one thing I had actually spent a long period of time learning and doing. However, I really tried pushing for teaching another subject: art, science, English, knitting, environmental issues, anything but music. In early May, I learned that I had been accepted into two internship programs, the one here in Palestine with TYO and one with a housing corporation in DC that works with the homeless. Obviously, I decided to take this one in Palestine, thinking that it would be the more challenging of the two. At that point, I was under the impression I would be teaching science. So when I got the email saying that my class was changed to music, all my insecurities took center stage again.

I chose this internship because I thought it would challenge me, and it has. But I did not realize what else it would do for me. Teaching music has rekindled something I thought I’d lost. Having these kids look to me for information, inspiration, and advice has helped me to find my confidence performing again. I cannot second-guess myself when I am in the moment, trying to help them create music from chairs or sing a song in a foreign language. If I am not sure about my lesson plans, why should they listen to me at all? When I am asked to “sing opera” at lunch, in class, at the pool, in the changing rooms, or on the bus to the pool, they do not care that I have not warmed up and my vocal cords are stiff. They want me to sing now.

Working with these kids and watching them really enjoy music has taught me to let go of my insecurities and just be. It is funny. My class is supposed to be geared towards teaching self-confidence through music. Something I most certainly did not have when I began classes. As at risk of reiterating the white-girl-teaching-kids-abroad cliché, I hope I have taught my students exactly what they have taught me.

Facebook Is Haram

Facebook. Bleh. I delete it every couple of months and then find some silly reason to bring it back. But there are some lines I won't cross. No twitter, no inappropriate comments, no posting photos. I've got Palestinian friends; I have to make sure my profile is not haram.  (I know, I know. I thought of the pants or the Turkish sultan's pack of women at first too. But haram in Arabic means "legally forbidden by Islamic law." This means if the Koran says no, no. But here in Nablus, there are things also outside the Koran that are still haram. So walking around in shorts = haram. Tattoos = haram. Alcohol = really haram. Painted nails = haram. You get the point.)

Anyways, I've had some requests for more photos. Mainly from my mom and dad, who are also probably the only ones who read this blog. (I don't even think my sister does, but we'll see if she catches me on this). Tonight, I have enough time to write a little and post some photos, but not enough time to write a real post. I drank a little too much Turkish coffee a little too late. So read on for some more photos of my kids' music and art class.

This was taken during the second week of classes while we were working on
pitch. On the First day, students learned one octave (C4-C5) on the music staff
and piano and then had to write their own song. On the second day, we split
up into four stations. There were two games of memory, one station making
music note cootie-catchers, and the final one with me, playing their song
on the piano. Here, Saja is working on reading the staff and playing the notes.

This was on the day we learned dynamics. We played a game of 'hot and cold."
But instead of yelling hot when the 'it' student was class and hot when far away,
we used dynamics. So if the student was close, everyone clapped loudly (fortissimo).
If the student was far away, we clapped quietly (pianissimo). If the student was kind
of close, we clapped somewhere in the middle of loud and quiet (mezzo piano/forte).
Here,  Mohammad is searching desperately for where his group hid their object. 

Also on our dynamics day. One of my volunteers, Sumar, is leading a
activity where the students mimic a rain storm. My translator, Mohammad,
is helping out.

On our melody day, I explained that notes and rhythm come
together to create a melody. Using notes and rhythms from

"On Top of Old Smokey," the students had to weave a certain

color based on a rhythm I clapped or a set of notes I played.
In the end, they had created a song and a weaving. Islam is
working away hard on his weaving.

On the our weaving/melody day, I stopped clapping/playing
and started having the students do the work for me. Here Eman,
one of my most clever students, picked the color she wanted
and played the corresponding notes on the piano. The
rest of the students then had to decide what color she played.

Hassan, also a favorite of mine, shows me his completed weaving.

Finally, this last video is of the day we worked on tempo.

I used a song called 'Froggie.' We began by singing it really 

slow and the second time around, we sang very quickly. 

See if you can figure out if this was the first time or second

Holding Babies, Singing Songs

"I am terrible with kids. I simply don't have the patience for them." This is something more than one family member and friend has heard come out of my mouth. My summer plans must have come as a bit of a surprise to those who know me. Back in America, I avoid kiddies like the plague. "No, I don't want to hold your baby. No, I am not interested in babysitting. You want to pay me twenty dollars an hour? Nah, I am still not interested."

Not only do I now teach music, I also hold babies at weddings.

Perhaps my tune began to change in Germany, where I taught English to first and second graders. But come on, six- and seven-year-olds are super cute, particularly when they are speaking in a foreign language or with an accent. Nonetheless, my time ETA-ing at Tiefburgschule got the ball rolling for this summer. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I teach a music and art class for eleven to fourteen-year-olds, the toughest age group in any part of the world: pre-teens. Without fail, it is the best part of my week.

Since most of my students have never encountered music education, I decided to teach the basics: pitch, rhythm, tempo, dynamics, melody, and performance. First, I am hoping to teach the kids concepts that they can utilize when I ask them to create a Stomp-like performance from found instruments. So far, we've gotten through pitch, rhythm, tempo, and yesterday, dynamics. 

Class began with a rain rondo, and then I asked the students to describe a rain storm to me. Storms start out quiet, a little pitter-patter. Then they become louder and louder, with lightening and thunder. Finally, as the clouds blow over, the rain becomes quiet again. I explained that in music, these different levels of volume are called dynamics. In order to practice our dynamic markings (pp, p, mp, mf, f, ff), we learned a song in honor of July 4th, This Land Is Your Land. While singing, students had to respond to the dynamic markings one of the volunteers held up in front of the class. So from my kiddies to you, Happy Fourth of July!

Stressful Situations

Shebab after shebab congregated outside of my friend, Mary-Jo’s, classroom. Longingly, I looked at some of the girls in the front of the class, wishing they were mine. But with a sigh, I accepted my fate.

Shebab literally means ‘the youth’ in Arabic. However, it can also refer to young Arab men. Typically between the ages of 16-25, shebab could be considered similar to a young male phenomenon going on across the world. In America, we call them ‘guys,’ college-aged men who do not put down the video-game controller, spend too much time in the weight room, are free floating, drink rather often, and generally lack ambition. In Great Britain and Australia, they are called ‘lads.’ In Italy, they are mama’s boys, bamboccioni or mammoni. And in France, they are fondly referred to as ‘Tanguys.’ Around the world, young men occupy this limbo phase between boy and man, and I have got a class full of them.

It is one thing to be teaching a class full of guys; mixed gender really helps in keeping order and focus. It is another thing to be teaching a class full of guys your own age or older. It is also another thing to teach a room full of Arab men as an American female. Thanks to Hollywood and just general American promiscuity, my nationality and gender come with certain stereotypes that are hard to break down.

So on that first day, as I led my class of shebabs down to my room, I was nervous. Mary-Jo and I decided that we would split her class up based on English ability, and I had offered to take the lower level of English. Everyone registered for the course was supposed to have an intermediate level of English. However, I quickly found that maybe two of my students could utter a coherently structured English sentence. The rest... well, they have some work to do. Although it is a professional competency class, I will often spend a large portion of the class working on English.

Today, I had my class work on speaking by asking them two basic interview questions: what is your greatest strength and what is your greatest weakness. I wrote the terms up on the board, had the students define them, and then gave them all a few minutes to think. Everyone had to explain to me why their strengths were useful, and how they overcome their weaknesses.

The best student went first, telling me that his “strength point” was communication with people, and his weakness was speaking English. He then said, “I am overcome weakness point by taking your class, miss.” Gold star for Mohammad.

The shebab who sits in the corner, never does his homework, and once told me that he “wanted to form a relationship with an American” went next. His strength: being able to face problems head on and stay calm. His weakness: getting frustrated easily. When I asked how he overcomes being frustrated, he said, “Nothing! I do nothing! I just stop.” Slowly, slowly, I tried to explain that this contradicted this his strength. “I do nothing,” he reiterated, and I decided to move on.

Haitham came next. One of my favorites in the class, he actually seems a little scared of me and thus, tries very hard to do things correctly. Nonetheless, his English is some of the worst in the class. After stumbling through his strength, I gave him an encouraging smile and asked what his weakness was:

            “Exams scare I. I fear,” he mumbled into his paper.

            “Okay. So exams make you feel nervous?” I asked trying to clarify. He nodded, and I tried to make his weakness more professional. “So sometimes in stressful situations, you get nervous. Is that what you are trying to say?” He nodded again, thinking that I had understood his weakness and would move on to a new person.

            “Can you say it?” I asked. “Just repeat after me. Sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous.”

            He nodded.

            I tried again, “No, you say it.”

            He nodded once more, and someone leaned over to translate my words into Arabic.

            “Just say: sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous,” I urged.

            “Stressful situations, I nervous.” Again, he sighed in relief, thinking he was off the hook.

            “Good. Now, how do you overcome your weakness? What do you do to deal with being nervous? How do you handle being scared?” I tried a couple of different phrasings, hoping one would make sense.

            He turned to converse with his neighbor, who then turned to me and said, “Please miss, he likes to go out. Um, he likes to go to park.”

            “Oh, oh. He likes to go take a walk in nature?”

            Haitham nodded.

            “Okay, so say: sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous. When this happens, I like to take a walk to calm down, and then I can handle the problem.”

            He nodded, agreeing that I had explained his weakness and method for overcoming it well.

            “No, Haitham. I need you to say it. We all know I can speak English. It is important for you not to just understand me, but to also say things yourself. Say: sometimes in stressful situations, I get nervous. When this happens, I like to take a walk to calm down, and then I can handle the problem. I know you can do it,” I encouraged him again.

            “Please Miss Hilary. This is a stressful situation.” Finally, Haitham said a full sentence.

Resurrection

About a month ago, I left Nepal and headed to Nablus, Palestine. Here, I am working for an American organization called Tomorrow’s Youth Organization (TYO). I am teaching four classes: Music and Art for eleven-twelve year olds, Professional Competency at An-Najah University, Beginner/Elementary Community English, and Mom’s Aerobics.

In each of my classes and several of my travels, there have been too many stories begging to be shared. Thus, I’ve decided to resurrect my blog, and hopefully this time around, I will be faithful with my writing and publishing. 

                                           A view of Nablus from my apartment balcony.

Saturday Morning Market

Looking for a sign that might direct me to my destination, I was quickly bypassed by one of Kathmandu's elite expats. Dressed in tights, a nautical style dress, and carrying a designer French bag, the woman purposefully waltzed down the sidewalk, and I decided that if I followed her, she would lead me right to where I was trying to go, the nexus of Kathmandu's expat community, the Saturday Morning Market.

Earlier this week, my previous research project and I got into a fight. Deeply unsatisfied, I decided to break things off and dived into the swanky arms of my new topic: Kathmandu's expat community. Instead of trekking up to Nepal's Tsum Valley (I'll admit to being a bit disappointed about missing out on this), I am staying in Kathmandu for the next month hanging out at bars, going to Saturday morning markets, and basically loitering in the areas most frequented by white people. You'd think this would be pretty easy considering I am a young, white girl myself, but it is looking like this project might push me more out of my comfort zone than my former one.

The market was held on the grounds of one of Kathmandu's upscale restaurants. Walking in, I was immediately stuck by how well-groomed and put-together everyone was. I stood there in hippie-pants that I picked up in Boudha, the Tibetan Buddhist portion of Kathmandu (see photo) that is just crawling with the baggy pants and patterned skirts of Western dharma practitioners, and immediately regretted the fact that I hadn't showered in the last three days. However, I sucked in my insecurities and began checking out the different booths. There was artisan cheese, sugar-free jams, fresh-baked goods, and fine clothing; all things I could not even consider buying with my meager student stipend. Finally, I stumbled upon a booth about street dogs and figured I could take a look without giving in and buying a block of cheese. The booth was run by an older couple, maybe in their mid-60s, from Australia. We got to talking about their work and my research. After a little while, I got up the nerve to ask to interview them at some point, and although appearing a little nervous about it, they said yes.

So I am off. I still have a little work to do though as far as getting over my timidity. After shaking the couple's hand goodbye and promising to call them, I quickly ran around a table of gorgeous, young expats and scurried to the exit. Oh well, next time, I'll know to shower.