I am getting very fed up with some of my students. I recognize they have lives, that they're busy people, that English is not their top priority. But when I assign five or ten minutes of homework for the weekend, and it's not done come Monday, I'm starting to get annoyed. Not because I care about the homework, but because it shows me just how little this student is willing to invest in learning a language. And that makes me realize just how much of a waste their lessons are--monetarily, of their time, and of my time.
One student--we'll call him "D"--is the classic example. He is a middle-aged man who takes private classes three days a week. He never does homework. He uses any and every excuse not to speak English in class. He refuses to practice by reading newspapers or watching English TV. And he's not doing particularly well as a result.
Today, he had to do a listening activity. Normally, we skip listening activities because they're frequently boring and usually stupid; this one, though, was about a homeless man in New York. I thought it would be good practice for him, since he's going to Chicago in November, and the listening exercise had lots of American money terminology.
So we listen once. He looks at me afterwords, and I ask him some comprehension questions. He says, "I don't know. I didn't understand anything."
"Okay," I say, "We'll listen again." So we slow down the speed, and start to listen again. He stops the recording halfway through.
"I don't understand anything," he says, and smirks because he thinks he's being cute. "It's Monday."
I'm not amused, in part because I'm worried that he can't understand what's going on in the exercise, but mostly because this is typical behavior from him, and I've had enough of it.
"Okay," I say, "here's the deal. You're going to have to listen to this for homework and do the exercise in your book."
He makes the usual homework excuses ('I don't have time,' to which I reply, 'Don't lie, we both know you have ten minutes to do this,') and then finally cedes with an "I'll try."
But I'm not taking his bull today. I say, "D, have you ever seen the movie Star Wars?" He has not. "Well, there's a very wise character named Yoda, and he says, 'do or do not, there is no try.' So, D, here's the deal. Do your homework or don't do your homework, there is no try. But if you don't do your homework, you will fail this level."
He thinks he has my number. "But you can't do that--there's the test," he says, and smirks.
"Yes, I can do that," I answer, knowing that he's close to failing regardless of this homework assignment. "I assign grades, and I have final jurisdiction." This is only mostly true, but I'm okay with the stretch. "If you don't do this homework, I will not pass you."
Class is over five minutes later (I spend the five minutes explaining the gist of and vocabulary words from the listening exercise), and as I'm packing up to leave, I say, "Remember, do or do not. I hope you do."
He answers, "You have a very strong character."
I respond, "Yes, and it has served me well." Then, feeling fired up and satisfied (and like I've somehow channeled my father), I leave.
Lesson learned: be not a doormat lest you be trampled on. Seriously. Reclaiming power through assertiveness feels... powerful.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
11 de Septiembre
September 11th is a notorious day inside and outside of the United States. In 2001, we watched our twin towers, symbols of American capitalism, creativity and ingenuity, come crashing to the ground in pillars of ash, debris, and flame. In 1973, Chileans watched their democratic government crash to the ground. Their president committed suicide (many think he was murdered), and the military police stormed the capital, pointing guns and lighting bombs and fires. September eleventh--11/9--is an important day here in Chile, for people who were opposed to the dictatorial regime, and for people who were in favor.
In the United States, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on American values and American power. Here, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on democracy, of the imposition of outside ideas (including an impressively heirarchical capitalist system) by a superpower (the United States, who funded the coup) on members of a formerly free society. For the youth, September eleventh demonstrates the failings of democracy--how democracy cannot work in Latin America because the United States won't let it work. Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist, was under constant attack by the U.S. from the time he started running for office. They tried to block his election, and when they couldn't, funded opposition newspapers and provided money and support (training, weaponry) for the armed forces who took over and ran the government until 1990.
My September 11th was actually very calm; I went to a friend's despedida in Vitacura, one of the richer comunas, where everything was quiet and protest free. Yesterday, on the Sunday after September 11th (because the proletariat doesn't have to work on Sunday, but they did have to work on the 11th), I went with two Spaniard friends to watch a protest aimed at the military police who have not been prosecuted for crimes committed during the dictatorship. Of course, the protestors weren't all there to protest human rights abuses. The communists came out, the gays came out, the militant anarchists came out. Everyone was marching to protest something about the government; everyone had a bone to pick (even if it wasn't the human rights bone.)
Some of the signs:
"No a la Impunidad"
One of the Spaniards carrying a "No a la Impunidad" sign
"Revolutionary Socialism: Power to the Workers"
"Truth and Justice Now"
"No Discrimination: Equality in Love"
Clase Contra Clase (one of the bigger, more organized groups. website: http://www.clasecontraclase.cl/)
"Our Only Option: Fight!! Popular Protest November 10th"
It's illegal for foreigners to protest, so I wasn't protesting. I didn't carry any signs or yell any slogans, but I (and the Spaniards, particularly the one with the sign) was still worried about what would happen if things heated up. We brought handkerchiefs and lemons just in case, and started the walk from metro station Los Heroes to the cemetery.
Things started out calm. Protestors handed out propaganda, chanted their slogans, caught up with old friends. I opened one of the pamphlets and started reading. "Yanqui, go home!" it screamed across the bottom of the page. I laughed and showed on of the Spaniards, "Try not to talk too much," he laughed back. When we started walking, we saw the police, dressed in full riot gear, carrying shields and accompanied by armored cars, that lined the roads and guarded the exits. Some were holding video cameras, others had digital cameras; everything was on film.
"Me da pena," said one of the spaniards, pointing his chin at the line of policemen.
"Don't worry about them," I said, full of false confidence, "They're just blocking traffic."
We walked a few blocks without anything noteworthy happening. Then, slowly, the crowd started to get more rowdy. An old man standing next to me solemnly gave the carabineros ("pacos"; the cops) the middle finger as we passed by; young people brought out cans of spray paint and started posting messages on the walls sometimes with stencils, sometimes free hand. The farther we walked, the thicker and sweeter the spray paint tainted air got. The farther we walked, the angrier the crowd got with the police. "PACOS CULIADOS!" one man cried, giving another one-fingered salute. The police didn't respond.
It had been calm for several blocks when we ran into the Spaniards' friend from school. "Is this as rowdy as it's going to get?" one asked. She laughed. "We're at the halfway point now," she said, "it's going to start picking up real soon. Did you bring lemons?"
Sure enough, one block later, things picked up. one of the protestors started throwing stones at the police lining the road. "PACOS CULIADOS!!" he screamed, and the next thing I knew, the whole crowd was sprinting forward. I heard what sounded like a high-powered hose, and then my eyes were burning. My throat burned--I spat and retched, but happily didn't throw up. My nose burned. My ears rang. I pulled my handkerchief up around my face and ran with the crowd, trying to get away from the gas.
Finally, it seemed like the spraying had stopped. I looked around and couldn't find the Spaniards; I moved forward along the sidewalk looking for them. The protestors started setting off firecrackers in the road, far away from the police; every time I heard a noise, I jumped because I thought we were going to get gassed again.
We did get gassed again; someone let off another firecracker, and the police decided they'd had enough. The crowd started running again; I was shoving my way through rows of people, all bunched together and running too slow to get away. Finally, I saw a chance to get out from behind them--the road forked. Most people took the left fork; I took the right fork, which seemed like the fastes way to get away from the burning. This turned out to be a bad decision; One protestor was violently angry, and decided he was going to tear down a police barrier along the right side of the road as an expression of this anger. And the police made a beeline for him, and the rest of us who had taken the right fork had to hop the barrier. I'm awful at hopping fences; someone was pulling me back off the thing, someone else was trying to get leverage off me, and I was on top of the barrier, screaming frustratedly, when someone else finally shoved me over, and I kept running down the street through the gas.
It finally stopped for real, and my throat and my eyes and my nose were still burning. Then I remembered the lemon: I pulled it out of my pocket, peeled it with shaking fingers, and took a bite. It worked: my throat stopped burning, and my head started to clear. I kept moving through the crowd, looking for the spaniards. There was no way I was leaving through the line of riot police lining the road, and there was no way I was staying there alone.
I finally found them, about a block ahead, and we kept on walking to the cemetary, where there were groups of protestors posted at all the major grave sites of revolutionary figures from the '70s, giving speeches, playing music, and praising the struggle of their compatriots that day, and in years past.
We stayed for about half an hour; then the spaniard's friend found us, and told us it was time to leave. "Why?" we asked; it was only one in the afternoon.
"That wasn't anything before," she answered. "You're not from here, and you can't afford to get caught by the cops, and you're not used to the way they're going to start treating people soon," she said. "We'll walk through the cemetary so you can see it, but then you have to go."
We were all exhausted from a long night before and the morning of sprinting, so we nodded and walked back through the cemetary, towards the entrance.
When we got there, the entrance was lined with police. We were about 40 yards away from the gate when they started spraying more gas into the street. I don't know why--we didn't see or hear anything happening outside. All I know is that I saw two armored vehicles go in two opposite directions, spraying gas while the people in the street ran away. A woman next to us was holding her baby and staring out at the entrance. She covered the baby's face with a blanket, and we all stayed back from the entrance as more and more police came to guard it. About one hundred fifty police in the end, I think, with their shields raised, in groups of six or seven, stood there, some taking video of the street, others holding shields, still more with their hands over their guns. We stayed still behind them for ten minutes; when they thought the threat had passed, they started to retreat and we saw our chance to leave.
We left, very quietly, through the front gate after about half the police had retreated into the cemetary. Outside, the air was still heavy with gas. vendors lined the streets, munching on their lemons. We walked to the next metro station, passing more protestors giving speeches and standing around; finally, we walked exhaustedly onto the metro and started the long ride home.
Being an outsider on the inside of this kind of political action made me ask some questions that I really don't know how to answer. I observed an almost bizarre ritual, in which both sides knew that the other side would not hesitate to respond with violence, and so both sides overreacted to each others' smallest actions. The protestors reacted to the mere police presence with shouts; the police reacted to the throwing of pebbles with gas. What about either of these reactions is reasonable?
Who is right here? How effective is this kind of protest if the police do not hesitate to use force, and if the crowd is small enough and calm enough that it's unlikely to create state-wide political change? If this kind of protest is ineffective, why is it the kind most commonly seen not just in Chile, but in Latin America generally? If this kind of protest is ineffective, what kind of protest would be more effective?
And the answer is, I just don't know.
In the United States, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on American values and American power. Here, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on democracy, of the imposition of outside ideas (including an impressively heirarchical capitalist system) by a superpower (the United States, who funded the coup) on members of a formerly free society. For the youth, September eleventh demonstrates the failings of democracy--how democracy cannot work in Latin America because the United States won't let it work. Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist, was under constant attack by the U.S. from the time he started running for office. They tried to block his election, and when they couldn't, funded opposition newspapers and provided money and support (training, weaponry) for the armed forces who took over and ran the government until 1990.
My September 11th was actually very calm; I went to a friend's despedida in Vitacura, one of the richer comunas, where everything was quiet and protest free. Yesterday, on the Sunday after September 11th (because the proletariat doesn't have to work on Sunday, but they did have to work on the 11th), I went with two Spaniard friends to watch a protest aimed at the military police who have not been prosecuted for crimes committed during the dictatorship. Of course, the protestors weren't all there to protest human rights abuses. The communists came out, the gays came out, the militant anarchists came out. Everyone was marching to protest something about the government; everyone had a bone to pick (even if it wasn't the human rights bone.)
Some of the signs:
"No a la Impunidad"
One of the Spaniards carrying a "No a la Impunidad" sign
"Revolutionary Socialism: Power to the Workers"
"Truth and Justice Now"
"No Discrimination: Equality in Love"
Clase Contra Clase (one of the bigger, more organized groups. website: http://www.clasecontraclase.cl/)
"Our Only Option: Fight!! Popular Protest November 10th"
It's illegal for foreigners to protest, so I wasn't protesting. I didn't carry any signs or yell any slogans, but I (and the Spaniards, particularly the one with the sign) was still worried about what would happen if things heated up. We brought handkerchiefs and lemons just in case, and started the walk from metro station Los Heroes to the cemetery.
Things started out calm. Protestors handed out propaganda, chanted their slogans, caught up with old friends. I opened one of the pamphlets and started reading. "Yanqui, go home!" it screamed across the bottom of the page. I laughed and showed on of the Spaniards, "Try not to talk too much," he laughed back. When we started walking, we saw the police, dressed in full riot gear, carrying shields and accompanied by armored cars, that lined the roads and guarded the exits. Some were holding video cameras, others had digital cameras; everything was on film.
"Me da pena," said one of the spaniards, pointing his chin at the line of policemen.
"Don't worry about them," I said, full of false confidence, "They're just blocking traffic."
We walked a few blocks without anything noteworthy happening. Then, slowly, the crowd started to get more rowdy. An old man standing next to me solemnly gave the carabineros ("pacos"; the cops) the middle finger as we passed by; young people brought out cans of spray paint and started posting messages on the walls sometimes with stencils, sometimes free hand. The farther we walked, the thicker and sweeter the spray paint tainted air got. The farther we walked, the angrier the crowd got with the police. "PACOS CULIADOS!" one man cried, giving another one-fingered salute. The police didn't respond.
It had been calm for several blocks when we ran into the Spaniards' friend from school. "Is this as rowdy as it's going to get?" one asked. She laughed. "We're at the halfway point now," she said, "it's going to start picking up real soon. Did you bring lemons?"
Sure enough, one block later, things picked up. one of the protestors started throwing stones at the police lining the road. "PACOS CULIADOS!!" he screamed, and the next thing I knew, the whole crowd was sprinting forward. I heard what sounded like a high-powered hose, and then my eyes were burning. My throat burned--I spat and retched, but happily didn't throw up. My nose burned. My ears rang. I pulled my handkerchief up around my face and ran with the crowd, trying to get away from the gas.
Finally, it seemed like the spraying had stopped. I looked around and couldn't find the Spaniards; I moved forward along the sidewalk looking for them. The protestors started setting off firecrackers in the road, far away from the police; every time I heard a noise, I jumped because I thought we were going to get gassed again.
We did get gassed again; someone let off another firecracker, and the police decided they'd had enough. The crowd started running again; I was shoving my way through rows of people, all bunched together and running too slow to get away. Finally, I saw a chance to get out from behind them--the road forked. Most people took the left fork; I took the right fork, which seemed like the fastes way to get away from the burning. This turned out to be a bad decision; One protestor was violently angry, and decided he was going to tear down a police barrier along the right side of the road as an expression of this anger. And the police made a beeline for him, and the rest of us who had taken the right fork had to hop the barrier. I'm awful at hopping fences; someone was pulling me back off the thing, someone else was trying to get leverage off me, and I was on top of the barrier, screaming frustratedly, when someone else finally shoved me over, and I kept running down the street through the gas.
It finally stopped for real, and my throat and my eyes and my nose were still burning. Then I remembered the lemon: I pulled it out of my pocket, peeled it with shaking fingers, and took a bite. It worked: my throat stopped burning, and my head started to clear. I kept moving through the crowd, looking for the spaniards. There was no way I was leaving through the line of riot police lining the road, and there was no way I was staying there alone.
I finally found them, about a block ahead, and we kept on walking to the cemetary, where there were groups of protestors posted at all the major grave sites of revolutionary figures from the '70s, giving speeches, playing music, and praising the struggle of their compatriots that day, and in years past.
We stayed for about half an hour; then the spaniard's friend found us, and told us it was time to leave. "Why?" we asked; it was only one in the afternoon.
"That wasn't anything before," she answered. "You're not from here, and you can't afford to get caught by the cops, and you're not used to the way they're going to start treating people soon," she said. "We'll walk through the cemetary so you can see it, but then you have to go."
We were all exhausted from a long night before and the morning of sprinting, so we nodded and walked back through the cemetary, towards the entrance.
When we got there, the entrance was lined with police. We were about 40 yards away from the gate when they started spraying more gas into the street. I don't know why--we didn't see or hear anything happening outside. All I know is that I saw two armored vehicles go in two opposite directions, spraying gas while the people in the street ran away. A woman next to us was holding her baby and staring out at the entrance. She covered the baby's face with a blanket, and we all stayed back from the entrance as more and more police came to guard it. About one hundred fifty police in the end, I think, with their shields raised, in groups of six or seven, stood there, some taking video of the street, others holding shields, still more with their hands over their guns. We stayed still behind them for ten minutes; when they thought the threat had passed, they started to retreat and we saw our chance to leave.
We left, very quietly, through the front gate after about half the police had retreated into the cemetary. Outside, the air was still heavy with gas. vendors lined the streets, munching on their lemons. We walked to the next metro station, passing more protestors giving speeches and standing around; finally, we walked exhaustedly onto the metro and started the long ride home.
Being an outsider on the inside of this kind of political action made me ask some questions that I really don't know how to answer. I observed an almost bizarre ritual, in which both sides knew that the other side would not hesitate to respond with violence, and so both sides overreacted to each others' smallest actions. The protestors reacted to the mere police presence with shouts; the police reacted to the throwing of pebbles with gas. What about either of these reactions is reasonable?
Who is right here? How effective is this kind of protest if the police do not hesitate to use force, and if the crowd is small enough and calm enough that it's unlikely to create state-wide political change? If this kind of protest is ineffective, why is it the kind most commonly seen not just in Chile, but in Latin America generally? If this kind of protest is ineffective, what kind of protest would be more effective?
And the answer is, I just don't know.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Priority Sorting
Last night, I called home to tell my parents some big news: I was offered a full time job (and a contract, and therefore papers, health insurance, and paid vacation time) at the Instituto Norteamericano Chileno, one of the biggest and most respected language institutes in the country. I was ready to accept the position due to the aforementioned benefits, but a little stressed about a couple of things--namely, signing a year-long contract agreeing to be available six days a week to work at peak hours (early mornings or late evenings), and the lack of travel opportunities this would allow me.
I didn't know why I was so stressed about this decision. I mean, I'm already working six days at peak hours, and moving to a different institute would only be good--my base pay rate would be higher, I would get a national ID card, free dental, and probably a great letter of recommendation.
I was talking to my father when I realized what it was. He always says before I hang up, "sounds like you're having the time of your life!" and I always ask myself... Am I?
No. As of last night, I was not having the time of my life.
This was an upsetting realization for any number of reasons. I came here with the specific goal of having the time of my life--I was going to reclaim happiness and experience the world anew. I was going to see new places, throw caution (sort of) to the wind and have some wild adventures. I was going to prove to myself that I could be happy and stress free, that I was capable of having, as my father puts it, the time of my life.
Getting a job was supposed to be incidental to these goals--I was going to work only to save enough money to fund some wild adventures. I would work hard for a short burst, and then leave. Totally stressless, totally calm, and totally manageable.
Except that it hasn't worked out that way. I have been working hard. Not because my job is difficult (it's actually quite easy), but because the hours are terrible--nonconsecutive and spread over the entire day. For example: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wake up at 5:45 and leave home at 7:10 to make a 7:15 bus that takes me to one of EF's other campuses, where I start work at 8:00. I teach for one hour (until 9:00), then spend another hour commuting back to the Providencia campus, where I have a second class from 10:00 to 12:00. Then, I have an hour-long break to prep my next class, eat some kind of snack (not enough time to go home and make lunch), and get from the school to my next class (a ten minute walk) and through security (ten minute delay at the front desk.) At 2:30, I'm done with that class, and finally have a sizeable enough break (2:45 to 7:00) to come home, cook lunch, maybe shower, mess around online, and prep for my evening class. At 7:00, I head back for the institute where I have class from 7:30 to 9:00; then I come home, exhausted, and watch the news or call my family or do something that isn't school related for about an hour, or until I pass out where I sit.
This might seem like no big deal--after all, it's only six hours of paid work--but it's a lot of short, stupid waiting time and short, stupid travel time that adds up to 13 hours of the day thinking about work, getting to work, or not getting too far away from work.
This schedule has made it difficult to have any kind of normal daily routine. If I eat breakfast before I leave the apartment (that means breakfast at 6:30) to save money, I have to pack and carry two snacks in addition to my books, as I don't have time to eat a real meal until I get home around 3:00. I don't pack snacks because it's too much to carry and I'm not that organized; I ussually wind up buying something small and unsatisfying around noon and something else (frequently with little nutritional value) on my way home to cook lunch, because I don't think I'll be able to wait 45 more minutes while lunch cooks to get some food in me.
Add to this perpetual exhaustion (I'm not a morning person, but I work at 8 five days a week, 9 on Saturdays), and it suddenly makes a lot of sense that I'm not having the time of my life--how could I be, if I hardly have the energy to get out of bed in the morning? How are you supposed to be having the time of your life when you can't even find the strength to go for a two mile jog every couple of days?
The point of this overly drawn out illustration of my daily routine is not to complain. I've put it here as an illustration of how I automatically--and very quickly--fell into habits that were actually totally contradictory to my stated goals when I left home for a new environment.
I thought getting a job at a different institute might solve this problem; I realize now that it won't. My problem has nothing to do with where I'm working or how much money I'm making. My problem has to do with embracing insecurity, with having the guts to say "maybe I could work more hours and make more money, but thanks to the savings I've built up, I don't have to. I am allowed to take my money and do with it as I please. I don't have to stay at any institute working; I'm allowed to go exploring, to see new things, to enjoy my trip here in every way possible. That is my right, and that is my prerogative."
This does not mean I'm quitting my job today; this does mean that I went in this morning and told my boss that I refused to work early mornings and late nights after tonight. This does not mean that I'm immediately buying a ticket to Buenos Aires and leaving tomorrow to go exploring; I'll wait another month, finishing my grad school applications and adding a little more to my savings until Catalina, a friend from home, reaches the end of her contract at her current job and can come down to go with me. And if she never comes, well, I'll go it alone when my visa expires. I have enough money that I won't starve, and protected enough at home that I won't lose it all if I should get robbed. I'm smart and capable enough to board airplanes and buy train tickets, and fascinated enough by my environment that I want to see it all. And I have enough common sense to stay away from places that are really dangerous for a woman traveling alone.
This blog is not a complaint or an observation or a discussion; this is a declaration. I will do what I came here to do. I will enjoy myself. I will stop with the stress and the worrying and the unhealthy lifestyle living, and instead will have a wonderful time seeing, experiencing, and spending, rather than saving. This is an investment in myself, and I am worth it.
I didn't know why I was so stressed about this decision. I mean, I'm already working six days at peak hours, and moving to a different institute would only be good--my base pay rate would be higher, I would get a national ID card, free dental, and probably a great letter of recommendation.
I was talking to my father when I realized what it was. He always says before I hang up, "sounds like you're having the time of your life!" and I always ask myself... Am I?
No. As of last night, I was not having the time of my life.
This was an upsetting realization for any number of reasons. I came here with the specific goal of having the time of my life--I was going to reclaim happiness and experience the world anew. I was going to see new places, throw caution (sort of) to the wind and have some wild adventures. I was going to prove to myself that I could be happy and stress free, that I was capable of having, as my father puts it, the time of my life.
Getting a job was supposed to be incidental to these goals--I was going to work only to save enough money to fund some wild adventures. I would work hard for a short burst, and then leave. Totally stressless, totally calm, and totally manageable.
Except that it hasn't worked out that way. I have been working hard. Not because my job is difficult (it's actually quite easy), but because the hours are terrible--nonconsecutive and spread over the entire day. For example: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wake up at 5:45 and leave home at 7:10 to make a 7:15 bus that takes me to one of EF's other campuses, where I start work at 8:00. I teach for one hour (until 9:00), then spend another hour commuting back to the Providencia campus, where I have a second class from 10:00 to 12:00. Then, I have an hour-long break to prep my next class, eat some kind of snack (not enough time to go home and make lunch), and get from the school to my next class (a ten minute walk) and through security (ten minute delay at the front desk.) At 2:30, I'm done with that class, and finally have a sizeable enough break (2:45 to 7:00) to come home, cook lunch, maybe shower, mess around online, and prep for my evening class. At 7:00, I head back for the institute where I have class from 7:30 to 9:00; then I come home, exhausted, and watch the news or call my family or do something that isn't school related for about an hour, or until I pass out where I sit.
This might seem like no big deal--after all, it's only six hours of paid work--but it's a lot of short, stupid waiting time and short, stupid travel time that adds up to 13 hours of the day thinking about work, getting to work, or not getting too far away from work.
This schedule has made it difficult to have any kind of normal daily routine. If I eat breakfast before I leave the apartment (that means breakfast at 6:30) to save money, I have to pack and carry two snacks in addition to my books, as I don't have time to eat a real meal until I get home around 3:00. I don't pack snacks because it's too much to carry and I'm not that organized; I ussually wind up buying something small and unsatisfying around noon and something else (frequently with little nutritional value) on my way home to cook lunch, because I don't think I'll be able to wait 45 more minutes while lunch cooks to get some food in me.
Add to this perpetual exhaustion (I'm not a morning person, but I work at 8 five days a week, 9 on Saturdays), and it suddenly makes a lot of sense that I'm not having the time of my life--how could I be, if I hardly have the energy to get out of bed in the morning? How are you supposed to be having the time of your life when you can't even find the strength to go for a two mile jog every couple of days?
The point of this overly drawn out illustration of my daily routine is not to complain. I've put it here as an illustration of how I automatically--and very quickly--fell into habits that were actually totally contradictory to my stated goals when I left home for a new environment.
I thought getting a job at a different institute might solve this problem; I realize now that it won't. My problem has nothing to do with where I'm working or how much money I'm making. My problem has to do with embracing insecurity, with having the guts to say "maybe I could work more hours and make more money, but thanks to the savings I've built up, I don't have to. I am allowed to take my money and do with it as I please. I don't have to stay at any institute working; I'm allowed to go exploring, to see new things, to enjoy my trip here in every way possible. That is my right, and that is my prerogative."
This does not mean I'm quitting my job today; this does mean that I went in this morning and told my boss that I refused to work early mornings and late nights after tonight. This does not mean that I'm immediately buying a ticket to Buenos Aires and leaving tomorrow to go exploring; I'll wait another month, finishing my grad school applications and adding a little more to my savings until Catalina, a friend from home, reaches the end of her contract at her current job and can come down to go with me. And if she never comes, well, I'll go it alone when my visa expires. I have enough money that I won't starve, and protected enough at home that I won't lose it all if I should get robbed. I'm smart and capable enough to board airplanes and buy train tickets, and fascinated enough by my environment that I want to see it all. And I have enough common sense to stay away from places that are really dangerous for a woman traveling alone.
This blog is not a complaint or an observation or a discussion; this is a declaration. I will do what I came here to do. I will enjoy myself. I will stop with the stress and the worrying and the unhealthy lifestyle living, and instead will have a wonderful time seeing, experiencing, and spending, rather than saving. This is an investment in myself, and I am worth it.
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