The Shortest Point Between Two Distances

Kristie and I rented a driver and a tour guide to take us to the Mekong Delta. I talked with the guide about Vietnam history, especially about communism. It was a non-issue for him, though. He said that he was the guide for a Russian guide last year who said to him, “Communism is the longest route from capitalism to capitalism.”

Coming Out

It seems like liberal Americans likes to often say, “that’s why the world hates us” to show our imperfections as a country. I have been in the world more than most of my friends and relatives, and those who say that phrase seem to hate America for than the world does. Talking to natives in Korea, Bali, China, or now here in Vietnam, I see that people still think highly of American opportunities and freedom. They speak of it with a quickened voice and a sparkle that is long gone from those critical of the U.S. As I have said often, it’s not an attitude that you must love Bush and the war and all that goes along with that to be considered a good American. Rather, I wish they didn’t lose the forest for the trees. More time is spent complaining about Bush and Republicans and conservativism which drowns any remaining joy about being an American. This attitude of malcontentness, while at times can initiate change, will not simply dissolve with a new administration. If a Democrat wins in 2008, you’ll still find something to complain about, because there are too many conservatives in Congress. Or the Supreme Court. Or, in local politics. Or on the school boards. Or in your workplace. Or on the radiowaves. Or on Fox. As a conservative, I feel like you will continue your harange until we all are wiped out, and your Master Political Race not only rules, but also is the only voice in this land. I have learned a few things from being around you and reading your articles. The main point I gleaned is this: you do not want me around. Other than a whipping boy or the reason America is in the toilet or why the world hates us, I serve no purpose in your mind.

The irony of this is that I welcome the discussion, and I could be persuaded to vote in your direction on some issues if we had more of a discussion on these topics. I do not vote “conservative” like a well-trained puppy. I welcome the discussion, but you do not want me in. Your starting point is an ad hominim argument. Your complaining interferes with debate and discussion. You exaggerate and caricature. Eye-rolling never convinced anybody of anything.

I met another teacher here whom I’ve grown to greatly respect. Kim is a strong liberal who is critical of Bush, etc. I recently “came out of the closet” to him on my political beliefs. He asked why I never said anything earlier. I told him that when I tell people of my affiliation, I am judged. I want you to know who I am before you put me in your prepackaged container. It’s a lot like skin color. You judge before you know anything about me. So, I’ve adapted to the hostile environment you created by hiding who I am. I gently smile at your jokes and knowing nods and cruel insults. You have made it clear that you are not as “tolerant” as you like to tell people you are. Where is your tolerance now? “Minds Are Like Parachutes…” your bumper sticker says. Where’s that open-mindedness when you are around someone who voted for Bush?

What time does the goose-stepping lessons begin?

The American War Museum

We visited a museum today that showed a slanted and propagandistic view of the Vienam War today (this is the way our Vietnamese tour guide and the tour books refer to it). It was to show the atrocities of war. There were three dead babies in pickling jars, all dead from mustard gas birth defects. It was gross.

The Shortest Route Between Two Points

Kristie and I hired a driver and a tour guide to take us to the Mekong Delta. I talked with the guide about Vietnam history, especially about communism. It was a non-issue for him, though. He said that he was the guide for a Russian guide last year who said to him, “Communism is the longest route from capitalism to capitalism.”

Lon's Pointy Hat

Lan is our next tour guide on the boat itself. We paid $45, and it seems like he purchased a guide for each strip of land in the Mekong Delta. She has one of those pointed bamboo hats that we always see in the explosion scenes in Good Morning, Vietnam-type movies worn by crouching rice field workers. She smiles a lot and her eyes turn upward at the outer corners. She’d look nefarious if she didn’t look so happy. Her English is rough, but she tries to communicate. She repeats herself often. Not like our grandmothers do by telling the same story about the Depression or what it was like to wear knickers in the winter. Rather, Lon punctuates her sentences by repeating the phrase she ended with. When we were starting our journey, she reviewed the itinerary. She said, “Here we will visit a coconut candy factory. A coconut candy factory. Then, we will go to the south to have a traditional meal. A traditional meal.” She is one of those guides that feels she must earn her keep by a constant volley of words. Of words. As if she is the Charles Dickens of the Southeast Asian tourism world, getting paid Vietnam dong per spoken word.

Nietzsche
Lon tells me about the local people in their fishing boats as we pass by. I’m not understanding it all, but I dutifully nod and smile, resentful of Kristie’s freedom to look at whatever she wants. She tells me about the local people on the island and their crops. She said something that sounded a lot like, “The local people look like Nietzsche. Look like Nietzsche. You know Nietzsche?” Now, I know this isn’t what she said, so before I launched into a philosophical discussion of Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Beyond Good and Evil, I simply said no.

Rolling Down Your Sleeves and Working
On our canoe-like boat trip through a canal that splits one of the islands, our other guide pointed out the gloves on the boat drivers’ arms. These gloves cover fingertips to biceps, something Batman would wear. They do this, he said, to avoid getting a tan. They want to look white. I told him that white people want to look darker, so they tan. He said both want the same thing. For the Vietnamese, dark skins equates to hard, outdoor labor and a lower social status. The gloves help keep the skin underneath white, so they can go out, take off the gloves, and hide what they do for a living. White Americans want to portray the image of a life sitting on a beach, rather than the whiter-than-Dilbert alabaster that comes from working in an office. Their bronzed bodies show that they live a life of Riley. Color, he said, puts one’s status in society out for all to see.

We wear our social status on our literal sleeves, I guess.

Ho Chi Minh Was Once Saigon

“Is France a land of fat, smoking alcoholics?”

This is a headline in the newspaper I am reading in the hotel restaurant in Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam. I can only wonder if the Vietnamese still have a bit a residual resentment lingering from the French Indochina occupation. Or, maybe, like most of us, they just don’t like the French.

We are finally here. After turmoil, we arrived in our rooms about 3 am. We were to be here a day ago, but we were stuck in three-hour traffic on the way to the airport in Seoul and missed our plane. We arrived at the same time the plane was leaving. An unhappy trip, to say the least. Even though I took a day off of work to extend our trip, I went into school defeated. I told the story 14,000 times. However, while I was preaching a depressed story to the children to conjure sympathy (they didn’t really care about missed planes or Vietnam trips), Kristie was orchestrating a do-over. At 3:15, we were on another bus to Incheon Airport. We made it with lots of time to spare. Early enough for me to ponder ways to bottle the excess time spent waiting for planes and transfer it to an account for use when traffic is slow or lines are long. I welcome your suggestions.

The hotel never picked us up, so we took a ride in a taxi. There were dozens of taxis in front, but, for some unknown reason, the guy we hired parked across a dark and dodgy lot. I told him the name of the hotel, and he smiled and tried to make conversation, as he politely swindled us out of our twenty dollars for a $1.00 ride.

There are many scooters in this city.

Today is Thanksgiving, and it is supposed to be 88 degrees. We are not part of a tour, so as soon as Kristie gets down here from showering, we’ll figure out what we’d like to do. There’s a few museums dedicated to the war. I’m interesting in those. It’s one of those places that I knew about but never thought I’d visit. I remember my 11th grade U.S. History teacher telling us about her visit here, and how beautiful it was. That was a long time ago, but I often thought about that. Last year, I taught the Vietnam War for the first time, and learned more than I ever knew about the war before. Platoon and Full Metal Jacket were the only textbooks I read on the matter. Oh yeah, Rambo as well.

For you jazz folks, Herbie Hancock will be in the city tomorrow for a music festival. Finally, after many years of anticipation, I can hear a live version of “Rocket.” I wonder if the robot mannequins travel with him.

I like how people go back and forth referring to this city as Saigon and Ho Chi Minh City. I’m unsure which to call it. Now I know how those Turks in Constantinople felt when it became Istanbul.

It's a Movie Bonanza

Here's a link to what's showing at our base movie theater. Please read this and pity us.

November is a stellar month. No movies this week due to an exercise, then Roll Bounce and Get Rich or Die Tryin. I wouldn't pay 50 Cent to see either of those.

Word.

Veteran's Day Celebrating

Today is a day off from school due to Veteran's Day. I'm a vet, but none of you wrote to wish me a happy Veteran's Day. It's not just for the wounded, you know.

Kristie and I spent the day cleaning out the garbage on our computers and backing up the important data. Our hard drives whiz along smoothly now and the desktops sparkle. I almost hope for a fatal crash on the system so I can restore it all easily. Above is a screenshot from the current incarnation of Dashboard. The Top 10 movies of the week is my favorite of the widgets.

I bought Zero 7's "Simple Things" album today. It has been the soundtrack of our day, and it is growing slightly annoying now.

I shredded two months of receipts today, and I organized my office. I began making a movie to show you what the place looks like, but it didn't come out as good as I thought it would. Could it be that I'm not as charming on camera as I think I am?

We are going to a dinner party tonight. It's 3:58 pm, and Kristie just changed out of her jammies.

Quarter One

First quarter ended on Thursday. Looking at the grades brought me one step closer to abandoning the teaching profession. I have already started thinking of other career paths I'd like, ones in which I am not held responsible for other people's laziness. After the report cards arrive, I'm sure I'll get a barrage of emails from parents angry with me for the grade. There is little blame put on the student in such matters. I say something similiar each time:

I put all assignments online.
At the start of each unit, I give students a schedule of the next 3-4 weeks of assignments.
I am available to help tutor kids before and after school, but I have not had many come in.

Still, it is not sufficient for some reason. We are raising a generation of young people to shift responsibility and work off of their shoulders onto others. In the short time I have been a teacher (six years, ten if you count my alternative school time), I sensed the decline grow steeper. By this, I mean that students are getting better at not learning. Now, I am not idealizing the good ole days when I worked on lessons in the wee hours of the night. "Three's Company" and Spiderman comics were more interesting to me than reading Huckleberry Finn and filling out worksheets on geometric problems. But, when my poor grades arrived, my parents blamed only one. Me. I couldn't imagine my mom calling the teacher to complain about my D in English, citing the problem as "Ron feels that you don't like him," or "Ron was quite busy around the house. I am to blame for that." I have heard both of these excuse sitting on the other side of the teacher desk, let me tell you. When parents do this, a powerful– and damaging – is learned.

I want kids to enjoy my classes. With this, I want them to earn good grades. But I cannot work harder on their grades than they are. They are the ones that need to do the assignments. I'll help, of course, but I'm not going to give As automatically. If they are involved in sports, they need to work harder to make up missing assignments. [Note: I continue to desire to work at a school without sports. I believe that if schools removed those programs, the academics would improve. Both schools I've worked at state that "academics comes before athletics," but neither of them do that. If coaches stopped with the "dumb jock" stereotype, perhaps students would, too.]

Thus ends the invective.

Starbucks Store Count

Seoul-108 stores

Portland-57 stores

Rhode Island-12 stores