In less than two hours I attend my first graduation ceremony here in Salalah. When I arrived here in September 2012, shaken and alone, I hadn't taught in a classroom for some time. Yes, I'd recently worked with some students doing their PhD's out of the University of Malaysia, but one on one. Via Skype. But a classroom? Nope. I quit my English/ESL job in the States some time ago, and vowed never to set foot in one again.
Things change. The real world is not a fun place...working at a bank, selling crap for AT&T on the phone, things like that. It's a rude, rude world. My mother worked two jobs, and toward the end of her retirement, she would come home and sit, unable to walk for a couple hours. Her sister is strung together with duct tape after years of working crap jobs for low pay. Teaching, my friends, is not labor. Live and learn right?
I was nervous for about an hour. Although in 2014 the College of Applied Science is loaded with girls, that first semester I taught only young men. And they were lovely. Respectful, kind, and cheeky in the most innocent kind of way. Abdullah was one of them. He came to class almost every day and worked to the best of his ability. He was quite stressed about his grades, and tried hard to keep them up. He is also a rather conservative young man. I remember telling the class about going to a restaurant with a girlfriend and the Egyptian waiter, who spoke no English at all,, slipping his phone number next to my plate. My friend and I joked about what the guy and I could possibly talk about. "Hello?" "Marhaba." And back and forth. I wasn't interested (of course...sheesh), but when I told my merry tale to the class, they boys laughed but Abdullah stayed quiet, hands steepled under his chin. He looked up at me and just said, "Teacher. What restaurant?" The class ooohed and I assured him everything was under control. You know what? At that point I would have killed a lion for that kid. I think I still could.
He came to see me the other day when he collected his graduation sash. Hand to heart, he asked if I was coming to his graduation. "Of course." Of course I am going to his graduation. I am grateful every day for this job, this new life. I will go in full black splendor, with my penciled Elizabeth Taylor eyebrows and excessive eye makeup, and I will feel my heart burst.
Then I will have to go home and bake a cake. Sigh.
Post Script: I cheated. I took a ready made pound cake and slathered it with homemade jam buttercream. I may post a pic of it in the morning but, you guessed it, right now I can't be arsed. I will bake two tomorrow as penance. A colleague said she doesn't expect me to fail, just collapse completely midway, slobbering and crying. Then, she predicts, I will dust myself off and finish. I don't think I was supposed to start gibbering on day twelve though. meh.
Graduation goober
Recipe for a Crazy Night
Take a pound cake you've already made. Or buy one from the store.
Slater with buttercream leftover from another cake.
Take yet another awful pic.
Go sleep.
Things change. The real world is not a fun place...working at a bank, selling crap for AT&T on the phone, things like that. It's a rude, rude world. My mother worked two jobs, and toward the end of her retirement, she would come home and sit, unable to walk for a couple hours. Her sister is strung together with duct tape after years of working crap jobs for low pay. Teaching, my friends, is not labor. Live and learn right?
I was nervous for about an hour. Although in 2014 the College of Applied Science is loaded with girls, that first semester I taught only young men. And they were lovely. Respectful, kind, and cheeky in the most innocent kind of way. Abdullah was one of them. He came to class almost every day and worked to the best of his ability. He was quite stressed about his grades, and tried hard to keep them up. He is also a rather conservative young man. I remember telling the class about going to a restaurant with a girlfriend and the Egyptian waiter, who spoke no English at all,, slipping his phone number next to my plate. My friend and I joked about what the guy and I could possibly talk about. "Hello?" "Marhaba." And back and forth. I wasn't interested (of course...sheesh), but when I told my merry tale to the class, they boys laughed but Abdullah stayed quiet, hands steepled under his chin. He looked up at me and just said, "Teacher. What restaurant?" The class ooohed and I assured him everything was under control. You know what? At that point I would have killed a lion for that kid. I think I still could.
He came to see me the other day when he collected his graduation sash. Hand to heart, he asked if I was coming to his graduation. "Of course." Of course I am going to his graduation. I am grateful every day for this job, this new life. I will go in full black splendor, with my penciled Elizabeth Taylor eyebrows and excessive eye makeup, and I will feel my heart burst.
Then I will have to go home and bake a cake. Sigh.
Post Script: I cheated. I took a ready made pound cake and slathered it with homemade jam buttercream. I may post a pic of it in the morning but, you guessed it, right now I can't be arsed. I will bake two tomorrow as penance. A colleague said she doesn't expect me to fail, just collapse completely midway, slobbering and crying. Then, she predicts, I will dust myself off and finish. I don't think I was supposed to start gibbering on day twelve though. meh.
Class the day before any holiday.
Graduation goober
Recipe for a Crazy Night
Take a pound cake you've already made. Or buy one from the store.
Slater with buttercream leftover from another cake.
Take yet another awful pic.
Go sleep.
My cake!
Look for the cheat cake tomorrow. And take the quiz you see on the side of the post! My future depends on YOU.
Love,
Felicia El Aid
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