Happy belated International Women’s Day!
Yes, another historic 8th of March has come and gone. I think with Men's Day (Feb. 23rd) also behind us, it is safe to say we have completed all gender-related holidays (sorry GLBTA community; this is a psuedo-Muslim country after all, and Russian Orthodox are just as unaccepting). As one of the biggest single-day celebrations of the year, Kazakhstan’s Women’s Day features plenty of parties and drinking, and way too many people out and about really late at night. One of my basketball players even got a black eye and a banged up nose from a Women’s Day scuffle. Spraznikom!
And don’t worry; this isn’t one of those progressive, post-gender holidays either. Women don’t get The Divine Feminine, they get home appliances: Shinae got a juicer, my host mother got a vacuum.
The week before IW-Day, the President gave his annual “State of the Union” style address. Our older students were taken out of class and sent to the regional cultural center. Remember that big DVD theatre I wasn’t allowed to use for English movie nights? They used both that screen and the one at the library (“our chairs are too new”) to show his speech. As it happened, our kids did not even get to watch; every school in town forces their pupils to attend, so the prime locations become rapidly overcrowded. Still, smaller TV’s were set up in our auditorium and students were instructed to watch it at home as well (it is rebroadcast over and over, and reprinted in its entirety in the national newspapers). The reason for having the students watch is fairly simple the Ministry mandates that in the week following a class must be taught on the President’s strategy. Students must also write compositions discussing his policies. Needless to say, “I disagree” is not a valid topic for these essays.
None of this Cult of the Personality stuff really bothered me until the evening of Speech Day. On Mondays and Wednesdays I play basketball in the college gym, and now that my back is feeling a little better, it is crucial to my weekly routine. However, just as we were beginning, an irate female teacher burst through the gym door. “We can’t hear the President’s speech!” she cried, demanding that we immediately cease, as our dribbling was partially audible in the next-door auditorium. I do not know how many times the speech had been shown up to that point, but I am sure, absolutely certain, that my students learn more from basketball practice. I was quietly (because I want to continue living in this country) furious. You want to make billions siphoning off your nation’s oil wealth? Fine. But don’t come between me and my mini re-creation of March Madness.
On that topic, my pick to win it all: UNC. And yes, my judgment is clouded by the fact that I technically used to work for their business school (when I was interning at the Kenan Institute).
Project Hope Petropavlovsk continues to survive, though only the library is running at this point. We have paid March’s rent already, which is good, as Meghan and Shinae are both in Almaty for In Service Training (“This is such a waste of time”, reads Shinae’s text message), and I will be leaving for the South on the 23rd. With no native English speakers to teach classes, it is harder to draw students. I will not return to Petro until the 2nd of April, meaning that my next blog post should come from PC Headquarters (barring some major life event).
On a professional note, I administered my first exam this week a midterm in my Advanced American History course. It went fairly well, though the differences between my two 3rd course groups became painfully clear: though the Russian language group (which includes many Kazakhs) has a stronger command of English, they lack discipline when it comes to reading the texts, and cheating is rampant. In contrast, the Kazakh group (which is entirely Kazakh girls) has less English ability, but far better work ethic. During the former test I had to shout for quiet half a dozen times, walk up and down the aisles, and still got back essay questions that were word-for-word copies of the text (doubtlessly hidden in desks or visible on the floor). For the latter I sat calmly at the front while they chugged away. And if you think a teacher’s emotions toward a student or class do not affect the way a subjectively-scored essay question is graded you’re crazy.
Without a doubt, nice students make teachers happy. Today while I was walking to the wardrobe to get my coat, a chunky 5th form boy came running up on my elbow. “How are you?” he asked. “I’m fine, thank you.” I replied. He paused for a moment, walking beside me. “You look wonderful today!” he cried, and then darted into the bathroom. It brightened up my whole day.
Finally, while a majority of the school still calls me “Mr. Forrest,” a number of the teachers and some of the older students have wizened up to the fact that “Forrest” is not my surname, and have begun to call me “Mr. Dunbar.” This leads me to the disturbing conclusion that I am now called “Mr. Dunbar” more often than my father. I don’t think I ever heard anyone call him anything but “Roger” outside of hotels and airports. Hopefully, these two years are just an ultra-formal blip, and I can get back to being just “Forrest” once I get back to the States.
Until then ,
До свидания
Dude,
Thanks for the large font.
Mr. Dunbar
Posted by: Roger | 03/15/2007 at 09:08 AM