We are mutually vulnerable– Week # 7

“Los que no han sufrido no saben nada. No conocen ni el bien ni el mal, no conocen a los hombres ni se conocen a si mismos” –Fenelón

“Those who have yet to suffer know nothing. They know neither good nor evil; they know neither men nor themselves” –Fenelón

" آنان که با درد و رنج بیگانه اند از هیچ چیز آگاهی ندارند، نه نیک را از بد تمیز توانند داد و نه از خود یا دیگری آگاهی توانند داشت" – فِنِلون

Those who have worked with me can attest that I am extremely patient. But there is a student that has been pushing the envelope further and further since the beginning of the semester; my bowl of patience has been brimming with frustration. Finally, I asked her to leave the classroom after she referred to an African-American man in the textbook as a “nigger.” Mindful of language and historical barriers, I genuinely tried to explain to her the racist burden contemporary American history has placed on this term, and offered her appropriate terms to use when referring to an American wo/man of African descent, but she further insisted on using the derogatory term. Perhaps she just wanted to defy the authority for all it’s worth. But there are certain questions that I’d still like to contemplate upon before dismissing the incident as such.

In an age where information incessantly pours into our screens, an age where books have their own magic of finding their way around the globe, no place is remote, no town is inaccessible, and no culture is isolated. “That” student must have read/heard about the history of slavery in the U.S. and the world. But what’s the gravity of her knowledge? Did she grow up with racism and racial sensitivities, dynamics of a post-slavery society?  Did she feel the percussions of slavery to the marrow of her bones by observing the systematic injustices African-Americans endure to this day? Has she read first-hand accounts of slavery? I assume she has seen depictions of slavery in films where the identities of slaves are barely negotiated with subjectivity and nuanced embodiment. She is unfamiliar with their history, with their stories, the reality of owning another human being does not sit heavily on her. “Nigger” is just another word for her, and for me it is the lynchings, it is Ku Klux Klan which used to ravage the South not long ago, it’s the ownership of another human, it’s murder and torture. Between the two of us, the gravity of this truth sits heavily on me.

Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Zamora, Michoacán

During the Cristero War in Mexico, many Catholics were
 executed against this wall by the Mexican Army

But “that” student has truths of her own that have little or no gravity for me: foreign invasion and conquest, centuries of feudalism and monarchy, decades of American imperialism, the persecutions of Catholics by the Secular government of Mexico, indigenous marginalization, atrocities caused by drug mafias, etc. I am unfamiliar with her pain, with the history of Mexican struggle. As I face my own unique struggle of establishing myself in Mexican society, learn their language and familiarize myself with their stories and pain, there are hundreds of red lines that I probably have crossed, of course subconsciously. For her, the term “Narco,” which I use so freely and loosely, means abduction, ransom, public shootings, fear, paranoia, in short, a national catastrophe! And there have been many times when I have jokingly used this term, being unaware of how real its threat is, unaware of how deep its damage has been felt throughout Latin America, how many lives it has consumed.

I knew very little about the United States as a nation. After I immigrated to the U.S, I studied American culture and history, I breathed American culture and history, its pains I assumed as my own, its stories I assumed as my own. And still there were many moments when I felt out of place. In Iran, we lightheartedly made jokes about Nazi Germany, Hitler and his gruesome regime. I remember for my 12^th birthday, I asked for a cake with a Nazi symbol on top. A few zestful speeches, handful of movies, and a couple of photos with his typical serious pose were all I knew of Nazi Germany and the atrocities it had caused. I just wanted to be “different,” but that birthday cake symbol for someone else would have been reminiscent of his/her grandparents’ remains. In the U.S, the ground in which the Nazi Germany is seen and analyzed bears no tolerance towards humor, as lighthearted as the one of an uneducated 12 year-old might be. The massive migration of European Jews to the U.S, the staggering number of first-hand accounts of the Holocaust published by the American media and many other factors contribute to the serious and unforgiving manner in which Nazi Germany is (and should be) perceived by Americans.   

As one who sees everything through the lens of literature, I place my absolute faith in the therapeutic effects of story-telling, and the dialogue it generations. I do not expect my student to obtain absolute sensitivity towards American history and society, but I hope she comes to class with an open heart for I am about to tell some stories. “From the suffering of another, there comes a giving that is no longer drawn from the power of acting and giving, but precisely from weakness itself, and the suffering other gives knowledge of shared vulnerability and the experience of the spontaneous benevolence required to bear that knowledge”—Paul Ricoeur.

Peace and resistance from Los Reyes,

Aria

I am an Abstraction! -- Week # 6



Art by: Charlie Uribe
Guadalajara, Mexico



My affiliation with the feminist thought, my philosophy as an atheist, and my passionate social stance as a Gay/Lesbian advocate used to always find a way into my conversation upon meeting new people. Those who have known me for years have come to realize the dear place each cause has in my life and studies. Many perceive these issues differently; nevertheless respect my sense of activism. But those who have known me only for a few weeks or months are often mystified as how to react, how to read this creature who stanchly labels himself as an atheist, feminist, or LGBT advocate. I’d consciously bring up my affiliation with these issues as a means of intellectual resistance and opposition against the systematic injustices that women and Gays/Feminists endure today. In so doing, I intended to be an inspiration, I aimed to break the cycle of apathy, I strove to ignite a sense of activism in my audiences. How effective have my efforts been? Clearly, it’s not my judgment. But that is besides the point of this entry.

Several months ago, a wonderful friend whose observations I highly respect brought up this issue right after we had met a Palestinian film-maker. We were to pick him up from the airport and take him to San Diego State University where his film was set to be screened. The car ride gave us a little time to interact with him. My company noticed that instead of sharing personal information, I brought forth different areas of my interest and activism through these labels. My friend shared that he personally never delves into his beliefs or religious/political affiliations until he knows a person well, especially when he hasn’t even been asked to comment on the status of women’s rights in the Middle East or the social status of Gays/Lesbians in American society. His observations made a lot of sense to me. But my recent experience living in Los Reyes truly put his observations into perspective.

Los Reyes is a small town. Most of its residents are avocado producers and farmers, the majority of whom have not received higher education. They are not familiar with different discourses of social liberties as many are in bigger cities. They are only in dialogue with what is mainstream, socially accepted. Xenophobia is common, and remains unchallenged to a degree. Feminists, Gays, and atheists are perceived to be mentally ill; they are to be cured. And there I was, giving a frank response to my Spanish teacher’s question about my faith. I sensed that her behavior and view towards me radically changed. She was taken aback by my disbelief in God, and I was disappointed and momentarily frustrated. But soon I recalled my friend’s advice. My relationship with my Spanish teacher was yet to be established as personal. The “Atheist” label thus had overshadowed who I am. And it was then that I thought of what Tracy Cummings, my mentor, once told me, “Often times one has to establish his good will before he can say a lot of things.”

After all, what is atheism? Is it a grand-narrative, with an unmistakably identical pattern of thought, mannerism, and beliefs? Does my Spanish teacher know that “my” atheism encompasses going to mass every now and then and enjoying a sense of community gathered in the Church? Does she know my atheism means praying for the Catholics of Haiti, Muslims of Pakistan, and Baha’is of Iran? Does she know my atheism means viewing religion as a progression of human wisdom, a meaningful narrative, a life-style. Does she know my feminism means battling for women to have a choice, be aware of their choice, and be able to choose motherhood and procreation as an alternative that may be embraced, postponed, or rejected altogether? Does she know my advocacy for Gays/Lesbians means respecting and accepting the most fundamental aspect of one’s human identity before establishing his/her political or social rights in society?

No, she doesn’t. And how is she expected to? We have not chatted over a cup of tea. I have not shown her my photography of Mexico yet. I have not gone to mass with her. I have yet to discuss with her my love for the works of American-Mexican writers. I have not established my good will yet. In personal mannerism, ethics, and thought I have not shown her how I interpret atheism, feminisms, and social activism. I have not narrated my story yet. My friend is right, before one really knows another on a personal level all these labels are unnecessary, they’re meaningless until one can see how a person interprets them in his/her life. They’re absolute abstractions. Equally, I am eager to see how my Spanish teacher has interpreted Catholicism in her life, and more importantly, what kind of tea she drinks, what books she reads, what films she watches. I am excited to hear “her” story.   

The Song of "Myself" --Week # 5

Dedicated to the world’s youth who strive to write their own vocabulary of

liberation and hope.

Los Reyes is hardly on any maps. It is a small town. It has waterfalls, volcanoes, and mountains. It has no cinemas, amusement parks, or grand shopping malls. Its youth are all the same; they walk under the same blue sky. A stream of blood runs euphorically through their brain at the sight of a teenage girl/boy. They spend hours before a mirror, a few minutes doing their homework in the hallway, and many more hours day dreaming in class. They are all the same, I repeat these lines to myself sitting in a cozy, smoke-filled cafe attentively observing the mannerisms of Los Reyes’ youth: the way they share a smoke, crack jokes, sip their beer, and the unique way in which each enjoys the live music and friendly environment of the cafe. And there is this guy, not far from where I am sitting, he shares a striking similarity with a close friend who lives in Shiraz; it’s enough to sink me into nostalgia. I cannot pull myself back together, cannot brush off the blues with any color. I walk outside.

My Iran has been on the news for its support of terrorism, threat to world peace, nuclear development, etc. But the daily realities that I experienced for eighteen years and my friends continue to experience today are nowhere on the list, dismissed entirely. In Iran, we are referred to as the “children of the revolution,” products of a repressive, totalitarian ideology that demands unquestioned devotion from its people, viciously injects its morality into Iranian society, and strives to annihilate any voice of opposition. Our story was narrated for us. Before we could form our own opinion, create our own identity, write our own history, all the answers were spoon fed to us. The grand-narrative demanded that we pray to one Direction, believe in one Truth, follow one Path. And somewhere in the midst of this chaos, there we were searching only for a cozy, smoke-filled café to enjoy some music, crack jokes, and feel youthful.

Writing the “song of myself” is not the easiest of tasks in the Islamic Republic of Iran. The official culture has taken over its own people as the enemy. There is no concept of citizenry reflected in the foundation of the regime and the application of its laws. The concept of democracy is reduced to presidential elections that have been rigged for the past eight years. In the Islamic Republic everything is politicized. A cup of coffee is politicized. Music lyrics are politicized. Women’s body is politicized. One’s sex life is politicized. In a culture where the government has no legitimacy, harms its people instead of protecting them, speaks on behalf of other oppressed nations while oppressing its own people in the day light, everything is the subject of politics. And somewhere in the midst of this confusion and turmoil, there we were probing for an entirely social concept of youthfulness. But we were out of line even before taking the first step. Our existence was out of line.

Iran has a long way to be a pluralistic democracy. Economic grievances need to be addressed first, and the concept of human rights and pluralism need to find their way into the law. And there are many more components that I will not bother writing about.  This blog is not about politics. It is about the youth and youthfulness. It’s about establishing the realm of politics distinctly separate from the social realm of youthfulness. My friends are captivated by a fixed, repressive morality. Their youthful years are being politicized. It's about humanizing them.

Peace and resistance from Los Reyes,

Aria

 

Can I get some English off the menu please? – Week # 4

Dedicated to Laurel Amtower, an inspiring professor, thinker, and intellectual.

Laurel Amtower
RIP

In my last entry, I shared my personal experience with the way English is commodified, “authentically” sold with a fixed market value. My mentor asked me, “Well...what isn’t commodified these days?” She always has valid points. Happiness is on sale. Redemption is sold in temples. Democracy is sold on the gallows. And freedom...I particularly remember these poignant lines from Ahmad Shamlu, “I fear dying in a land where the price of freedom is cheaper than the salary of its grave-diggers.” And thinking...I recently reviewed the works of an Iranian poet, Naanaam; he has an interesting perspective on the commidification of education and thought-processes, concepts that ought to sustain a healthy distance from the hard-core economic scene of our capitalistic world today.

Naanaam writes, “We live in a world where the act of thinking, knowledge, and vision have all been commodified. He asserts that by assigning a fixed economic value to books and ideas therein, thinking, as a creative and inquisitive process, has been reduced to pursuing a particular agenda: stabilizing and improving one’s social status. With respect to the status of independent thinking, Naanaam draws an interesting parallel to the way the fast food industry has changed people’s qualitative and quantitative eating habits: “McDonald’s only thinks about filling people up, it does not concern itself with the value of nutrition. I see this as a symbol, for me the act of thinking is akin to the value of nutrition, a reading process that is not accompanied by independent thinking means devouring, it means McDonald’s.”

I came to Mexico with grand ideas. I brought my euphoria, my love for English. I brought a small suitcase filled with classroom memories and experiences. I know my teaching abilities and weaknesses. I am well aware that a suitable learning environment is one that engages students with the material at hand, broadens their horizons, brings dynamism to class, and creates a small English community (in this instance) in which language learners feel secure and comfortable to produce language, make mistakes, and self-evaluate their progress. But already after three weeks of working for the Culturlingua institute, I find that I am “selling” English, not teaching it. I have no option but to stick to the book. No outside material is provided or paid for. Making photocopies is often not welcomed. Books are old and worn-out. They are in need of fundamental revision to sustain interest. The administrative staff seem apathetic to the progress of students. In short, it’s a business establishment. I have put my suitcase of euphoria back in the closet.

Nobody has learned a language from a book. Otherwise I would have been absolutely fluent in Arabic having studied it since sixth grade. In the next several months, this job will pose a massive challenge to me as a teacher. At worst, it will ignite a cold sense of frustration. And at best, it will force me to be more creative and resourceful. At the moment, my discontent aside, I have an ethical commitment to my students. That is all that matters. That is where my focus lies. They look up to me. I cannot let them down.

Aria

The Face of English - Week 3

The market for teaching English as a second/foreign language is well-established today. English is an international language. It’s the “official” language of world’s most powerful country which has massive influence on mainstream media and culture, and in every corner of our world that influence is relatively evident. Much of what flows incessantly into our screens on-line is written in English. English is a requirement for the most prestigious universities in the world. It’s the common language of traveling and tourism. Innumerable scholarly works in myriad fields are written in English. It’s the language of Shakespeare, a university in and of himself as Edward Said once said.


I moved to the U.S in 2004 with limited English. I had been studying English on and off since 12. It wasn’t until I turned 16 when I became really determined to learn English, precisely when my family was summoned by the American embassy in Ankara, Turkey, a year after which we immigrated to San Diego. Even then, my motivation to study English had more to do with Ali Agah, my teacher, than moving to the U.S. Upon settling in America, I had to re-think my academic plans. I loved literature. Having grown up in Shiraz, one couldn’t resist falling in love with poetry. Lyricism was embedded in the city’s landscape: its purple mountains, roses, narrow water canals running through its gardens, its tall and slender variety of cypress, its lackadaisical atmosphere, its heavenly Mays have all nurtured many poets over the years. Poetry has been and continues to be the most common medium of expression of all Iranian tribes, Kurds, Turkmen, Afghans, Tajiks, Persians, Bakhtiaris, etc. I was no exception either.

Literature required a high level of language proficiency. I studied hard. I devoted my life to the learning of English. I read everything. I read bias-less-ly, from the Classics to the Romantics, from medieval works to Post-Modern works. I wrote day and night. Literature was not a major for me, a college degree with a fixed economic value. It’s my vision, how I interpret the world as a text, how I make love, how I say hello, how I express anger. It’s how I see a “tree,” how I shop at the market, how I pass by a stranger. It’s my day and its daily-ness. In 2009, I finished my elementary studies in literature. I decided to settle down for two years, read a few books, translate a few poems, and gain experience as a teacher. In May 2010, I obtained my TESOL degree (Teacher of English to Speakers of Other Languages). I began searching for jobs soon after. And it was then that I encountered the following criteria in many job postings: Native-Speakers Only!

That was not a requirement I could meet. It was neither a degree that I could obtain, nor an experience that I could gain. It was what it was: English is not my mother tongue. And it will never be. It was then that I was introduced to the concept of “native-ness,” and its entitlements pertaining to native speakers. I did secure a position as an English teacher, but the debate continues on my mind. On paper, my application is dismissed by many hiring directors because I am not a native-speaker. But we all know that the intent of such requirements overlook one’s capability to speak English, one’s familiarity with its nuances, one’s level of articulation and fluency, one’s ability to explain and elucidate its grammar. One can be a native speaker and be able to perform none of the above. The concept of “native-ness,” in my eyes, is intertwined with the concept of “authenticity” and its market value. Who’s the “authentic”—read more marketable—face of English? Who has the most “proper” and “authentic” accent? My roommate Rafael, who’s from New York, but is of Dominican and Puerto Rican descent? Or Claudia, my Canadian colleague who’s of Moroccan descent? Or is it my friend Carolyn, a British citizen born in Northern Ireland? I believe the more appropriate question ought to be: Should English have a “native” face? In an age where cultures engage in an artistic, literary, etc dialogue by the virtue of a “click,” some speak of “authenticity” as if they can reach for it in their pockets. An ethnically or geographically monopolized concept of authenticity is a museum object, the remnant of an archaic culture. It has no place in the contemporary culture. A teacher should NEVER be hired or judged based on his/her passport.

Good or bad, often “native-speakers” of Arabic, Persian, Urdu, Hindi, Turkish and Pashto have been burdened with the task of teaching their mother tongue due to the lack of wo/men-power. The presence of a sharp, critical perspective in the teaching of less commonly taught languages compared to Spanish, French, German and English can perhaps be pardoned. But English has inherited many lovers whose roots have been nurtured in foreign soils, whose many accents only enrich its syllables, whose diverse perspectives open more avenues to the understanding of its arts & literature. English has no excuses not to equally embrace all its children. I had been long debating whether or not I should tell my advanced students about my birthplace. Where I grew up is a big part of me, relevant to my classroom. I found that the burden of holding this piece of information from them only grew heavier as we got to know one another. I had my reservations and fears. But it no longer mattered for I, too, am a face of the English language. So last Friday I joyously pointed to the city of roses and poets on the world map: That is where I was born. It is who I am.

“Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birthplaces, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth,” Nathaniel Hawthorn, The Scarlet Letter.

Aria
Los Reyes

This Is What It Means To be a Teacher – Week 2

Dedicated to the memory of Mohammad Bahman-Beigi: nomadic teacher, writer, educator.

Mohammad Bahman-Beigi

Books are strewn on the floor. The night before our first day as English teachers. Everyone attempts to project what teaching will be like. Questions are floating in the air. How do you deal with real beginners? How do you discipline trouble-makers? What if students decide to speak Spanish and ignore me? I’m fine with adults, how do you entertain children? More theorizing and projecting follow. We plan our Monday minute by minute. Choose five different icebreakers for the first 7 minutes of class. We go over lesson # 1 and simultaneously attempt to predict our students’ level of English. More anxiety follows. How the heck am I supposed to teach my beginners “present perfect tense?” Do you think intermediate students can handle “frequency adjectives?” On the brighter side, our anxiety demonstrates that students are only thought of with care and thoughtfulness. The teaching day arrives.

Was it anything like we had projected? Yes. There was a classroom. There were students. But teaching was a foreign prospect, akin to a stranger who had concealed himself from us in spite of our deliberate and anxious attempts to get to know him. He’s unknowable, unpredictable, and queer. We look forward to meeting him with much anticipation. We are excited about him. At those times, he seems most aloof. Making an error or two affects our mood massively. Lack of response from students takes our entire planning into question. We get disappointed. And at those times, he gracefully comes around and gives us a sense of warmth and encouragement with his smile. A smile that only hardworking and free-spirited teachers can earn.

Today was a day filled with manic-depressive moments. Teaching is self-probation, self-annihilation, and self-reflection at the same time. It’s simultaneously five coffee-less hours, five joyful hours, five painful hours. It’s five hours smiling when you want to sob, five hours smiling meaninglessly when you want to rip a student apart, five hours standing when you want to open the door and run. Allow me to speak in the lamest terms, just standing before a group of gazing eyes who wait impatiently for you to open your mouth takes much fortitude. But until you have not opened your mouth, inspired them, been a friend to them, judged them, disciplined them, and loved them, you haven’t done the rest, which take a heart and a ruler. If you survive all this at the end, they call you a ‘teacher.’ Oh also, they tend to pay you.

Teaching five classes, five different age levels, and five different language levels is an appalling prospect, a massive task. I have my advanced group, a group of teenage girls who have been studying English for five years. They gracefully arrive late, reproach me if I let them go thirty seconds late, ask to be corrected, when corrected give me a dirty look. In their class, I try to be 'cool,' speak their 'language.' I probably come off archaic. Only if I understood those Spanish chatters… My intermediate highs are next. Also teenagers. I like them. They make awkward jokes. This girl asked me if I had a girlfriend. I nodded yes. She said, “She’s probably ugly.” I said, "why would you say that?" She said self-righteously as she was chewing her gum, “Oh I was just joking.” No matter how much I beg them to call me Aria, I still hear them say, “See you tomorrow teacher.” Next are spoiled, ten year olds. This girl, Natalia...I wish I had her confidence. Throughout college, I never volunteered to read poetry. I believed English poetry and Iranian accent do not go well together. Whenever this girl opens her mouth, she thinks she’s gracing the English language. They want to play hide and seek. They want to be in “boys” versus “girls” groups. I want to pull my hair. God forbid I leave the class for a second…they’re destructing something. My last class is with adults. They are motivated. A notebook in front, a dictionary, a sharpened pen, with their learning appetite. Before I open my mouth, they want to be corrected. Every grammatical point has to be elucidated to death. They already know more about the English grammar than most native speakers. But they cannot speak it.

Yes my dear friends, I go from talking about career change to past perfect tense, from Grandma Julie watering her flowers to this book is red in the afternoon, and from "Rose by any other name would be as sweet" to My name is Aria, nice to meet you at night. It’s a rollercoaster ride that sees me transform from a cool teacher, to a clown, from an entertaining baby sitter to a right-to-the-point lecturer. For all it’s worth, we have probed the 'true' meaning of teaching. But our queer friend, “teaching,” seems to be still in hiding.

However, today he seems to have graced us with his smile.

Me llamo Aria y tú? Still Week 1

There are things one cannot change, even by force. During a trip to Acapulco, I was ridiculed by my friends for having taken a philosophy book on a yacht, in one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. That night, my friend met two nice girls, with one of whom he really ‘clicked.’ He brought Sophia and her sister upstairs so to be ‘charitable’ and encourage me to join them on the dance floor. Sophia never left the roof top until the yacht had returned to the shores. She happened to be a literature major, enough said for those who know me. I didn’t re-tell this story to show off; I have a point to make.

Before I decided to teach English in Latin America, I read numerous blogs, mostly written by English teachers. Mostly, they had chosen Latin America for its fun and festive environment, drinking, socializing, so forth and so on. I don’t quite know my roommates yet, unaware of their tendencies and definition of ‘fun.’ All I know is that every time I came out of my room, for whatever reason, we engaged in a heavy, intellectual conversation. Discussions vary from the contemporary place of religion in the world, Post-Modern American literature, Feminist writings, etc. Last night, in the midst of one of our long discussions, it just hit me! In the middle of a charming town, at eight o’clock, after a day of work, we were discussing Simone de Beauvoir’s “The Second Sex”???

I laughed, not at the moment, not at what a hopeless book lover I am. I laughed at how the world works! What are the chances that three teachers would end up, each from a different corner of this planet, in a little Mexican town to discuss books??? My Canadian roommate finally gave up. Today, she proposed that we create a book club, read throughout the week, and discuss our books on Saturdays. So the point being, sometimes it’s better to accept and embrace one’s personality rather than go against it. If I take so much joy in discussing Nima Youshij’s love letters and Cormic McCarthy’s “All the Pretty Horses” to my roommates, then so be it. I believe once one finds peace with his/her personality, and truly see that there are as many gods in the world as there are humans, then no source of authority can stand in his/her way. No one can dictate to him what to think, how to make love, how to worship, and what to do in one’s leisure time in Mexico! In my precious time here, I plan on learning from my roommates and contribute to our ‘little’ book club. And I take pride in that.

Aria