Like they use in Singapore?

In any new area that you move to, there are certain things that must be learned. Where is closest grocery store? Gas station? Seedy bar where I can make bad decisions in a dimly lit environment? Which restaurants are good? What areas should I avoid? Do the locals use any odd vocabulary (like "bubbler" in Milwaukee, or "Coke" in the deep and dark South)?

When your move is more substantial, there is substantially more to learn. How do I say "thank you"? How do I ask where the bathroom is? Should I avoid flashing peace and/or gang signs? Should I agree or disagree with current/past U.S. foreign policy? It also never hurts to learn the local cultural values and ways to carry yourself. I hope I am exaggerating, but sometimes I get the feeling that during the occasional week, I pick up more Arabic than my students do English. Either way, I am a consummate student of regional cultures, and I always do my best to assimilate as much as a smart-mouthed, jaded Mid-westerner who shares most of his vocabulary with the sailors of yore can.

It is with this mind-set that I entered into what I hope will be the first of many fascinating parent/teacher conferences. It took place last week on a fine Shamkha evening. There is always something disconcerting about returning to school once the sun has set. It gives the feeling that you can only be there for illicit purposes. Breaking in. Vandalizing. Stealing the camel that is kept as a mascot to rally the football team before the big game with the crosstown rivals, the Bani Yas...camels (it's about all they got out here). As luck would have it, we were there for what is normally a rather pedestrian affair. If a parent is involved (which generally results in what some would call a "good" student), they show up. If a parent is uninvolved (which generally means that I genuinely need to talk with them) they don't show up.

The first big shock of the night came when I began to quickly realize that we really do work in a bedouin community. These were rough desert men that arrived to speak with me about their sons (women don't generally come to an all boys school). Some of them reminded me of your stereotypical Hell's Angel (but substitute a kandora for the leather jacket). They looked as if they had spent many evenings asleep under the stars in the middle of an endless sea of sand. A few had full sets of teeth. Many had just a few. All of which were in varying degrees of yellowing and jutted out of their mouths at haphazard angles. Refreshingly, my students' fathers almost unanimously agreed about the value of education and that their students need to work as hard as possible. I offered the usual praise for my "good" students. "Your son is the hardest working student in my class." "He is always respectful and helpful." "I wish I had 29 more just like him."

Shockingly, one of my students with little to no foresight showed up with his father. This boy is hands-down my worst student. He wanders around the classroom aimlessly, absolutely does not do work, and has been gradually increasing the frequency with which he kisses another student against his will. Academic and administrative punishments do not register with him. On a good day, I let him sleep undisturbed. On parents' night, I had my third meeting with his father, but it was just my first with a translator. I explained his son's behavior and the fact that he was going to fail. In frustration, I threw up my hands and said, "I just don't know what to do with him." At this, his father paused and thought for a moment, then spoke to my translator. What he said was, "He is giving you permission to beat his son." I tried to hide the the mixture of shock, disgust, and excitement that was on my face and replied simply, "OK." He stated that he would bring me a stick to use for the beatings and explained that it was okay to hit him on the torso and about the head. Still, I nodded and said, "OK." My translator then explained that if I accidentally beat him to death, I would only have to pay one million dihrams (about $275,000). As we all laughed at what was (obviously?) a joke, I thought, "This is seriously f-ed up."

I don't have the stick yet, but, inshallah, I will have it soon. Will I beat a student as an example to the rest of the class? I would like to say no. However, in my mission to understand the new culture I am surrounded by it may not be the best idea to retreat to my traditional Western values. Don't get me wrong, I am not advocating child beatings, but "when in Rome" as they say. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion at some point. Will Rich compromise his morals in the pursuit of classroom management? Only time will tell.

*As a side-note: I am spending November making a great push at getting my greatest of American novels written. If you are interested in reading something different on this blog, let me know. It won't be timely, but it will be Mid-western, and beautifully scandalous. I shall always concede to the demands of my adoring public.

A Tramp Abroad

Yes, it has been too long since my last post. This has not been due to lack of things to say. Many times, I was close to writing an extensive rant about how terrible my new students are and how literally and metaphorically foreign the working conditions are. Not being one to give in to wanton, knee-jerk reactions, I thought the wisdom and experience of time would provide with a more humane assessment. This is my attempt at that.

I won't bore you with details of my pedagogy, but I think some details about my work situation (kinda the reason I came here in the first place) are rather overdue. I'd give you information about my school, but that is rather frowned upon. I can give you a little bit though. I have three sections of 10th grade boys. Even though they have technically had English classes for the past 10 years, I am still working on teaching many of them to write their names. Some students are great. Some students are terrible. That is the truth in any country though. Regardless, they do all like to talk...a freaking lot. This is one of the biggest challenges, aside from yelling, wandering away, fighting, spitting, sleeping, and other assorted awesome behaviors. Everyday, my classroom management includes several techniques that would get me fired instantly in many U.S. schools. Unlike many of the Arabic teachers (great guys from countries such as Egypt and Jordan), I refuse to punch my students. However, I have no problem with pushing, pulling, lifting, grabbing, or otherwise physically intimidating them. For example, today a student refused to listen to what I was saying after I requested he stopped talking several times. I then made the decision (important because it's kind of bad form to do things out of anger) to walk over to his desk, look him in the eye, and then pick his desk up and throw it into an empty area half-way across the class. This had the desired effect. Anyone who has seen me teach will realize that this is not my normal behavior, but sometimes you just need to change to fit the situation. I also have used extra class time to have my students line up to arm wrestle me. This has the dual benefit of demonstrating that I am stronger than all of them thus, increasing my intimidation factor and also making me feel good about myself for having bested a dozen or so spindly Middle-Eastern children.

As you can imagine, the intense work demands result in equally intense play demands. Wasting very little time, I have taken up my usual hobby of finding the seediest places in a given city to visit. I don't know why, but I find it surprisingly life-affirming to visit life-negating locales. In the span of one weekend, I visited two uniquely different establishments filled with miserable, soulless creatures. The first was a "night club" that has a grand reputation for being a house of ill-repute. Well, here in a Muslim country at least partially governed by Sharia law, this was something I just had to see. Without going into detail, it did not disappoint, or maybe it disappointed a lot. I'm not quite sure about this one. Long story short, the world's oldest profession is absolutely miserable and pathetic when it is genuinely staring you in the face. This is intentionally vague, and I'm sure there will be more details in my second book, "Yet to Be Titled," which I will start on right after I am done with the first one. For the time being, this is a relatively PG blog.

The following day, I went on a tour of the local pet souk (a souk is essentially a market, for lack of a better domestic term, it's like a bazaar). As I wandered through shop after shop, inhaling a stench that was vaguely reminiscent of feces, newspaper, and death, I thought, "those Sarah McLachlan commercials ain't got nothin' on this place." I was a bit disappointed by the lack of exotic animals. Sure, there were your standard puppies, kittens, birds, and fish, but only rarely was there a pair of peacocks. And never was there a cage of squirrels, as I was promised. "Anthropomorphize" is generally a curse word for me, surpassing many 4-letters words in offensiveness, but these animals all looked at me and seemed to communicate. Unanimously, they said the same thing: "Put me out of my misery." This was the second time in as many days that I had seen this look. The first time, it was not from anything as harmless and cuddly as a small animal though.

I'm not so sure how I feel about my foray into the darker corners of a country better known for its innovative architecture and palm tree-shaped islands. It does shed light on reasons why a nation would retreat into its ancient culture and values while it expands its modern, global presence. Even with a strong emphasis on traditional moral values, the exploitation of humans finds a way to seep in. I guess wherever there is a buck to be made, someone will try to be making it. And where there are millions to be made, many people will be trying to make it. I guess in the end, that is what really brought us all to this crazy desert metropolis, the animal peddlers, the ladies of the night, and lets certainly not forget, the teachers.