Well it has been a couple of days since I have updated, so I
apologize if this is a longer entry than normal.
The first week of school came to an exciting close in a
flash of disorganization. I only have one class on Friday’s (a schedule that
college me is eying enviously), which is in the 3rd grade with my
younger coteacher Dika. However, 5 minutes into class, a girl burst into our
room in a confused sort of dazed. It turns out the English teacher for the
upper grades did not show up, and I was asked to go teach the 11th
grade by myself. For the record, this is completely outlawed by TLG and my
contract, but I did not really see the harm it could cause, and figured I
couldn’t destroy any of these kids educations in a mere 45 minutes. I made
sure, upon walking into the room filled with smiling and expectant 17 year
olds, to tell them all that they were not allowed to tell them that I was
teaching them without a coteacher (seeing as how it would get me in trouble),
and they all stared at me wondering what the hell I just said. Turns out
English was only made compulsory last year, so even though they are going to
graduate in a year their abilities range from a 5th grader’s to that
Carlos Mencia beer commercial when he teaches his citizenship class to say ‘BUD
LIGHT!’ This was going to be harder than I thought.
I made it through pretty much unscathed; we did a few
exercises in the workbook, I got to force noisy kids to read in front of their
peers (which they did not like), and then I ultimately rewarded them with the
ultimate American substitute teacher contribution – 20 minutes of heads up 7
up. To my credit, the kids learned a bit, enjoyed the rest of their Friday, and
only one kid jumped out of the first story window and ran down the street, not
to be seen again for that school day. Overall, a success.
After class I made the 2 kilometer walk back to my house and
got changed, as I had been selected (asked? Coerced?) into helping coach the
school’s soccer team. I mad a small lap around the village and ran up to the
gates of the school where the kids were running around outside of the
marshutka, just about ready to pull away. They stared at me as though I was
some sort of alien, as the concept of physical exercise in Georgia is pretty
boring. There might have been an additional humanizing moment as they saw me
sweaty and out of breath in shorts and a tshirt, rather than up at the front of
the classroom in slacks and a nice shirt spouting a language they barely
understood. Either way, 20 of us piled into a bus meant for 12 people, health
and safety for minors were hurled out the window (we didn’t have any space to
carry the book on safety regulations), and our possibly inebriated hurtled the
rust, 1980, soviet-era death trap hurtling through the cows and pigs to our
soccer game.
Ultimately, we lost 5-2 (despite the kids assurances that
they were really good and Chkhorosqus didn’t stand a chance – I should have
known when we showed up an hour late, missing kids, and not in matching
uniforms like the royal blue and yellow numbered jerseys of our opponent). It
was truly heartbreaking because I could tell that the kids really wanted to
show off for their new American teacher, but I think they eventually warmed up
after I taught them some fun U-12 soccer mini games from by past glory days of
11 year old soccer. I even found some 20 year olds who were watching everything
who kicked around with me for a while, and I managed to disguise my crippling
uncoordination enough to fool them with some semblance of athleticism, and they
offered me a spot on their adult team that plays on Saturday mornings. I bid my
two new teams goodbye as the students made their way back to the bus, and I was
dragged to the backroom of the stadium house for food and vodka, as is the Georgian
way. Thirteen shots and not enough food later, I was bright red and giggling at
the gap in the front teeth of the opposing coach, and everyone decided it was
time for everyone to go home (my head coach was barely conscious). Little did I
know, the kids had not been ushered back to the school while we were
celebrating whatever celebration, and were hanging out of the windows of the
bus waiting for our return. I then got to take a few mile ride back to the
school, feeling terribly self conscious about my ill disguised intoxication,
and realizing that this ‘culture’ of Georgia is merely a firable offense in the
US.
Saturday woke me up with another small prayer that I still
offer every morning after drinking, realizing how lucky I am that I’ve never
had a hangover. I laced up my shoes and
filled my backpack with 2 liter bottles of water (my host mother still gave me
a look that told me she thought I was an idiot) and I stepped off for my first
day of soccer on the field about 5 miles away. The game went pretty well, all
though it was more of a practice than an actual game, everyone on the pitch
showing obvious signs of not sharing in my luck of being immune to hangovers.
The game came and went without too much of a sweat being broken, but luckily I
had the back half of a 10 mile to get back to the house. I was about half a
mile from my house and freedom from my backpack, when a voice broke through my
iPod speakers, a distinct call of ‘amigo!’ I immediately paused, wondering
whether I had heard correctly or had simply become completely fluent in
Georgian through some sudden osmosis. But I was right, the owner of the local
gas station moved to Georgia a few years ago after having lived in Madrid for 7
years, and I finally had someone that I could speak to in a foreign language.
My Spanish was a little bit rusty, but my ability grew almost as quickly as my
confidence as 2.5 liters of beer and 500 ml bottles of orange Fanta (filled
with vodka) were broken out. It was a nice reward after the long walk and
soccer game, but, between the complete absence of food for the day and the
slight dehydration from such walking, the drink quickly caught up with me and I
convinced myself to leave around 3. I walked back to my house and Saturday was
just about shot, except for a small note from my host parents that there are
certain people I need to shy away from drinking with, as some people have been
accused of putting drugs in new people’s glasses. You can take the kid out of
Wilkes Barre, but…
Today marked the return to a typical work week, Monday being
my busiest day of the week with 5 classes. My entire village exists on one
road, about 3 kilometers from one end to the other. I live at one of the
farthest points from the school, which means I often walk past many students on
my way in to work. Today, it resulted in a flock of 8 year old girls following
me all the way to the school gate, either making fun of the way that I walk or
trying to match my longer gait with their small legs. Either way, I was
escorted into the building by my posse, both hands held, and immediately said
‘hello’ 100 times, as that is the main thing most people are confident in
saying, and each student wants their own greeting. I even had one girl say she
loved me, and some students coming back for their second or third hello.
Finally, I get to know what Justin Bieber feels like.
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